Deep River
by Tavina
Summary: Baron Uchiha is summoned home by his dying father, and learns that politics is not something he enjoys. Sunfall/Moonrise War of the Roses AU. MadaKanae. Former/Sort of Current HashiMada. HashiMito. Dubious Historical Accuracy.
1. Come What May

**Disclaimer: I do not own Naruto. **

**This work is dedicated to Izzy and Blue and the rest of the amazing discord. May we actually see one of these stories end.**

* * *

"The sadness will last forever."

— Vincent Van Gogh

* * *

The sun sets over the plains and lights the fields on fire. There's not a tree for miles, and the heat of high summer makes the late afternoon air sticky, even without the aid of the sun. The carriage rattles over the unpaved road. After seven years in the capital, Baron Uchiha is finally going home.

Not that he wants to go home, but that's neither here nor there.

He's going home.

He is a striking man with dark eyes, pale skin, full lips, and long dark hair pulled back by a leather band. Despite this, he's never been entirely popular in Court. Perhaps it is because he never smiles in public.

The Court does care about appearances, and he makes sure that his is as unfriendly as possible. He doesn't like people.

Not that he cares overly much about his popularity or lack thereof. It is better not to be haggled over by the ladies like a piece of particularly enticing meat. The old vultures want his inheritance, but the younger ones know better than to speak to him. He'd made sure of that by scowling as hard as he could possibly stand at all times.

He is the eldest son of the Duke of Warwick and set to inherit his titles upon the old man's death. It would be a lucky woman who finally does marry into Warwick. At least, that's the popular opinion of prospective mothers-in-law.

But this is far from his mind.

At the moment, he dozes fitfully as his carriage continues its journey forward along the uneven road.

His head slams against the wall. _It's a damned wooden box. What else will it be? My coffin? _He knock on the side of the carriage with his cane. "Would you keep it steady, Setsuna? I'm trying to sleep in here."

This trip home to Warwick will be an unhappy one. The Duke of Warwick is on his deathbed, and now, he's calling his eldest surviving son home.

Madara isn't sure he likes the idea. His father will want him to marry. He'd rather not. But the old man will insist, and he will have to obey.

He is the inheritor of Warwick, twenty-four years old, and entirely childless. Not, of course, that a bastard would do in this situation — bastards are not supposed to inherit — but His Grace Tajima Uchiha will insist, and Her Grace Harumi Uchiha will do her best to see the thing done.

Given the speed with which his mother works, it's entirely likely that he'll be married before the year is out, and it's all his father's fault for calling him back and claiming to be on his deathbed.

The lucky lady will soon learn to regret conceding to his mother's wiles.

There's a reason he spends most of his days in London. He and his father...do not get along.

"Sorry, Milord." Setsuna calls back. "We're going through a rough patch of road." It's been a rough patch of road for the past six miles. Warwick isn't a popular destination despite being the seat of a Dukedom.

And the rough roads aren't something that Setsuna can fix. It's a problem due to Madara's own negligence for the most part. His father has been deeply immersed in the whims of the fortune tellers in recent years, and barely paid attention to the world outside Warwick proper.

He can't complain about roads or his father's negligence of the them when he hasn't been back in seven years. There are heavier mountains to carry in the future.

Madara scowls and wave a hand at the coachman's back. "Yes, I understand." There's a letter burning through the breast pocket of his waistcoat that he doesn't want to touch much less read.

He'd rather not think too much of Hashirama at the moment. The man had written of love and friendship carefully of course, but still, it's best to remember that they have no ground to stand on. For years now, they've been more than friends, but soon now, with the death of the Duke of Warwick, that's likely to end. And if it doesn't end with His Grace's death, it'll end when Her Grace decides that he needs to marry for the good of Warwick and arranges for a pretty doll to decorate even his townhouse in London.

No, then there'd be a pair too many eyes in his life to sustain their relationship.

Not that his love has ever been sustainable. They meet on pain of death. Sodomy. What an awful word.

The thought blackens his mood still further, so he puts it away.

"Setsuna!" He calls. "How much longer?" The carriage jolts over a particularly offensive hole, and he nearly hits his head on the wall as he pitches forward.

He rights himself though, because the insult is not to be born.

He is no longer a boy, and there is no reason for him to be sprawled on the floor of a slow moving carriage.

"Sorry, milord." Setsuna sighs. "It'll be another half hour since we can't go so fast. It's getting real rough out here."

As if to prove a point, the carriage jolts over another uneven patch. Baron Uchiha gives up on sleeping. _At this rate, I'll be black and blue before I even step foot over the threshold of Warwick. _

_I should have just taken a horse. _

* * *

The carriage clatters over the cobbled courtyard in Warwick, and he clenches his teeth against the clattering in his head and gathers his trunk from under his seat and throws his double bags over his shoulders. They are light, largely because there's not much he owns in all the world that he'd like to bring to Warwick.

It's mostly just clothes. He doesn't trust his father's tailors not to decide that he needs to be dressed in ridiculous fashions complete with ornate lace or a wine-red waistcoat.

The hideous monstrosity that he's last worn to see his father was bad enough.

"My son!" Her Grace, the Duchess of Warwick, hurries forward, her arms spread wide. "You must come up immediately. His Grace has been asking after you all day."

So the old man isn't nearly as sick as he'd like to pretend. _I should have known. _He pushes the thought away.

He pauses for a moment in the cooling twilight in his mother's arms. "I will certainly go up to see him, Your Grace." His mother stiffens. He should not have called her 'Your Grace.' She is his mother, not a title, despite how much he doesn't feel it at the moment.

"Setsuna! Take his bags up to his rooms." His mother gestures for the coachman to come forward.

Madara acquiesces, surrendering his luggage. It is unfortunately time to go up to see His Grace, the Duke of Warwick.

"Where is Izuna?" Seeing his brother makes him feel guilty most days, because it is hard to look at the mass of burn scars and the black band over Izuna's eyes, but it's worse to ignore his existence. He has not seen Izuna for two years, ever since he'd sent Izuna home from London after the accident.

"Oh, he's up in the north tower, Milord." Hikaku falls in step beside him as he sweeps up the stone steps. "He's been there all morning. You know how he is."

Izuna had studied stars once, in the observatory, had spent his life turned towards the dark night sky. How cruel it is that now all he sees is darkness even during the day. The darkness for him will always be as black as pitch without a single star.

It is all gone now, all those dreams, and the guilt is a flame lit against his flesh.

"No." Madara comments out of the corner of his mouth as his cane taps against the stonework of Warwick Castle. "You forget I have not seen my brother for two years. I do not know 'how he is' as you put it."

Hikaku chuckles and lapses into an uneasy silence. Perhaps he's taking his nerves out on steward.

Perhaps it isn't fair, but Madara can't find the energy to care. "I will see my brother in his tower after I see His Grace."

It's likely that he won't have energy to do much of anything after he sees the old man, but God, he has to see Izuna again sometime.

Two years, and not even a letter. It's not as if Izuna can read anymore. The excuse still burns anyway. He ought to have written. His mother could have read his words to Izuna. He hadn't the courage to let anyone else see those words he'd wanted to say to his little brother.

"Of course, milord." Hikaku bows and pushes open the door of the master bedroom.

The scent of death hits him in waves. It smells like rose water and piss, sickeningly sweet and cloying. The window is dark, as the sun's gone down, and now the room's lit dimly by a triad of candles by the fortune teller's table.

His father's room certainly smells of death and decay and rotten things. What a convincing act in the play of their lives. Duke Tajima would hardly _die. _He does not believe it.

Madara does not retch when he steps forward. "Your Grace." He murmurs, as he moves toward the seat by the old man's bedside.

The sickness might be worse than he'd suspected. But then, the old man could still be acting.

His father's eyes look as alive as ever though, despite his body decaying all around that sharp mind in silken sheets. "So you're finally back, boy." A withered hand gestures him closer.

The fortune teller sits on the other side of the room, his tarot cards spread across his desk. The man turns jaundiced eyes towards Madara as he finally arrives at his father's bedside.

"The Dragon approaches." The commoner named Zetsu murmurs. "But without the Storm he will not succeed."

_Oh for the love of God. _"Shut—"

"Quiet, boy." Tajima Uchiha gestures for the fortune teller to come forward. "The Dragon is my eldest boy?" _There he goes again, believing the lies, believing the commoner dressed like a fool._

Zetsu shuffles forward, his head bowed. "That's what the cards say, your grace."

Madara doesn't trust this slimy commoner further than he can throw him. What sort of man would wear black and white clothes, patchworked like a fool's costume and claim to see the future in a deck of cards? And who the hell would give people titles like 'the Dragon?'

"What's the Storm? A trial?" Duke Uchiha breaks into coughs, and Madara has no idea how to react.

His mother had written to say that his father is dying, but he's never been able to square it with his worldview. Duke Uchiha had seen him off to school in London standing tall and true, a man of fifty still capable of swinging a mace and hammer with the words to never trust another man further than he can throw them.

Seven years later, he's been reduced to this doddering wreck, hanging onto the words of a fortune teller.

Dimly, Madara wonders where everything went wrong. Was it his own decision to remain in London? Was it Izuna's accident? Was it Inabi's death?

He doesn't know.

"No, Your Grace. It is likely that the Storm is a person." Zetsu fiddles with the cards in his hands, and one slips free. He dives down to retrieve it and does not meet the Duke's eyes. "But whether he is a friend or a foe, whether he is a trial that the Dragon has to overcome or a blessing in disguise is very unclear with the lay of the—"

"Oh, shut up." Duke Uchiha waves a hand at him. "Take your cards and get out."

Zetsu bows and scrapes, cards fluttering down all about him that he picks up with trembling hands, and flees out the door without a backward glance.

"I don't know why I keep him." The old man murmurs as he turns his attention back to Madara.

_Believe me, I don't know either. _Madara thinks, quietly to himself, because he's sure his father can read the disapproval on his face.

"Straighten up, boy!" The dying man barks.

Madara snaps to attention. "Yes, sir?"

"Your wardrobe is beastly." His Grace sneers. "What are you dressed for? A funeral? I'm not dead yet."

"It's the latest fashion in London, sir." It most certainly is not, but as it's unlikely his father's been out of bed for months, he wouldn't know the difference.

"Stop celebrating my impending death, boy. I've things to say to you."

Madara flinches. He had not been in any measure of the word, _celebrating his own father's death, _but he has no desire to argue. Not tonight. Protesting would lead to words, and words would lead to screams and on occasion, blows.

He's too tired of everything for all that tonight. Tomorrow perhaps. Tomorrow.

The Duke coughs, and blood sprays across his handkerchief. "Zetsu tells me that you have a great destiny before you, son."

It's been years since Tajima Uchiha called him son. The word sends a chill through him. _What does he want now to call me that? Or is it just an old man's nostalgia for days past? _

"I don't trust Zetsu further than from here to the door." He doesn't mean to say it. It just...slips out.

"That's not your call." The Duke frowns at him. "You'll need a wife, and I want to see you married before I die."

"It's short notice, sir." It isn't. He's known all along that he needs to get married, had known it for years now, but if he ignores the problem, it'll go away.

"You've years to find yourself your own bride." The Duke pushes himself up higher on his pillows, breathing hard. "You've been in London all these years, surely there's been a woman who's caught your eye?"

"She's married." False on all accounts, but his father does not know about Hashirama, and Madara would like to keep it that way. There's no lady, and Hashirama is certainly unmarried.

"Really." The old man murmurs sardonically. "You think I haven't heard the rumors, boy? What have you been doing with the Marquess of Scarsdale?" _Hashirama— _

"Absolutely nothing, Father." Lying is as much as a part of him as ever. "You know that."

"I know you're a liar, son." The old man's eyes are sharp and bright. "You forget I'm your father. You fiddle with your hands when you lie."

"I am not lying." His protest falls on ears that already know his lie.

They descend into a silence, though it still crackles with tension. Here it comes, the shouting, the anger breaking out, the words that leave him shriveled inside, the shame the guilt, all of it.

"You'll need to forget all about it." The Duke decides after a moment of thought. "You'll be married off soon enough, so no one will be able to say different. I'm sure you've left no evidence of it lying about for others to pin on you. Put that love away, son. You've a long life ahead of you."

Madara blinks, flabbergasted. "You're not going to—" _Tell anyone? _

"You think I'll turn you into the King's Law?" His father's shoulders shake from the force of his bitter laughter. "What sort of dog do you think I am? You're my son. I'd hide more crimes than love for you with every power I have."

It's more largesse than he'd expected. Still, as he expected, he has to get married for all to be forgiven.

"Have you found someone already?" It's not like him to simply...accept his fate, but he is so blindsided by the events of this night, that he has no idea how to react.

"Not as of yet." His father turns away. "I'm tired. We can talk more tomorrow. Go find Izuna, you've been thinking of him all this time that you've been here." He waves a hand toward the door. "My last saving grace, at least my sons will not fight over my seat after I'm buried."

"Of course." Madara murmurs and rises. "I will see you in the morning, Your Grace." He had not been thinking of Izuna, but it is better that his father thinks so.

Is this his eventual fate as well? If he does not die on the battlefield, would he also end up with that bright-eyed madness, a belief in fortune teller's cards, and his flesh melting into his bones while worrying over the fate of his sons?

"Madara." It is his mother. "Come with me." She pulls him down to the hall, where dinner is laid out. "You'll eat before you go anywhere."

Harumi Uchiha folds her hands in her lap and watches him with dark eyes as he sits down. "You should have eaten much earlier, but I'm sure His Grace kept you for his reasons."

He's not the least bit hungry, but he forces a spoonful of potatoes down his throat and smiles at his mother. "It's good to be home."

She hides a smile with one of her bell sleeves. "Don't lie, Madara. You hate it here." She watches as he cleans his plate. "You'll not be leaving Warwick until I find you a bride to take back to London."

"Don't tell me that you believe the fool's mutterings about the Dragon and the Storm, Mother." It is easy to settle back into the grooves of this routine. "Because that's the ramblings of a fraud."

"No, I don't." His mother studies him, her eyes roaming over his face. "But if it persuades His Grace to pressure you to marry, then I'll pretend to believe it. Warwick cannot be heirless, and we have waited long enough."

"I will not like whomever you find for me." His mother will look for a doll to grace his arm. Likely the girl wouldn't have a lick of sense, but she'll come with wide hips and an ample bosom. The thought makes his stomach queasy.

He doesn't want to marry. Doesn't want to, but if he pushes it he might enrage his father enough to actually set the King's Law on his head. Call him a coward, but he has no desire to die for love, not when it would leave Izuna to the mercy of the vultures and the first woman who gets close enough to take advantage of him. His little brother has always been softer, more willing to compromise, kinder than him.

There are plenty of people who would trample on that.

"You do not have to like your wife." She presses her lips into a thin line. "You will simply have to endure the mother of your children. That is all." She takes his hand and looks him straight in the eye. "Warwick cannot be heirless, and men die all the time. You need a son." For the woman who bore five sons and now lives with two, the statement is all too true. _Men die all the time, is it, Mother?_

Harumi Uchiha had been born Tajima Uchiha's first cousin. Her loyalty to both Warwick and her husband is absolute. She'll have no sympathy for him.

"Give me two months, Mother." Two months is the longest he can ask. "There are still the trade talks to finalize with the Scots, and afterwards if I do not find anyone, you can arrange my wedding with anyone you'd like, and I will not protest."

She frowns, thinking it over. "Very well. If you find a suitable candidate and persuade that lady to marry you in the span of two months, I will concede to merely organizing your wedding party." She pins him with a heavy glare. "But she must be a suitable candidate, and I must approve."

Two months. He's won two months of breathing space, and it feels like a hollow victory. Where will he find a bride while confined in Warwick in two months? By what metric will he select a woman to spend the rest of his days with?

_How unfortunate that I do not also have a convenient first cousin to marry. _His father's younger brother, Lord Fugaku has three sons, Shisui, Itachi, and Sasuke, all much younger. No convenient first cousins to choose from for him.

"I will go up to see Izuna now, mother." He kisses her on the cheek as he passes. "Do not worry. Father will live to see my wedding."

It has to have taken a toll on her, all these months with his father, Izuna, the servants, the doctors, and the sleazy fortune teller as her only company. Taking care of both his father and Izuna while fending off the vultures from the door must not have been easy. It is sad that he's used up so much of his goodwill already tonight.

He has only been home for a day, but already it feels like the walls of the castle are leaning in, crushing his mood down into his boots.

* * *

He makes sure to step loudly, letting his boots ring out over the stone steps as he climbs up to the top of the tower. His cane taps the ground next to him. He does not need a cane, but it does also doubles as a blunt weapon and hides his rapier, so he carries it with him at all times.

Izuna has been up here all day, according to Hikaku, and that worries him. _If he has been up here, has he even eaten?_

He does not want to startle his little brother. "Izuna?" He is the only little brother that Madara has left and even then, only one accident away from being buried. His thoughts are morbid, but seeing his father dying earlier has shaken him.

"They told me you were back." Izuna's sitting on the window seat, his head leaning against the stonework, an arm thrown over his knee. "But I didn't believe them."

Madara comes to sit across from him and sets his cane over his knees. The black band over Izuna's eyes can't hide the edges of the burn scars. They wind over his cheekbones, as though the flesh is still melting.

Madara averts his eyes. "Why didn't you believe them?" It is useless to ask who Izuna means by they. He likely means one of the servants, and it is less important anyway.

"You hate it here." Izuna raises his pipe to his lips and inhales slowly, his face tilted toward the ceiling. "And you don't want to see me."

"You know that's not true." Madara takes his brother's free hand, but still doesn't look at him. "You know I'd do anything for you." Two years. Their separation might as well have been two minutes.

Izuna still reads him as well as ever.

"Oh, I know." Izuna murmurs absently. "I know you would do anything, brother, but that doesn't mean that you want to see me. The two are different things." He exhales a cloud of smoke. "Not that I'm unhappy that you're home." The corner of his mouth tilts down. "It's been so boring without you, Madara."

Madara sighs. "Father wants me to get married, and Mother is aiding him this time."

Izuna shrugs. "You knew it was coming." He squeezes Madara's hand. "You'll make it through somehow." _You always have, before. _

"Ah." Madara leans back against the stone, and feels its rough hewn surface through his hair. "I have two months to find someone." This tower had been their fortress once, when they were young.

Now that they are both young men, it seems to still be a haven of sorts. Perhaps it will be so still when they are old. Or perhaps he will sit here alone when he is old, with aching joints and a madness brewing in his veins.

"That's not so much time at all." Izuna takes another drag of his pipe. "I assume Mother will find someone if you don't find a Baroness yourself?" For whomever it is, it will be a courtesy title anyway. She would not hold it without being married to him, much like how Mother would not be a Duchess were she not married to a Duke.

"Ah." Madara shrugs uselessly. Izuna cannot see, and he doesn't have to shrug. He does so anyway. "Father's dying." He had to come home and see for himself to believe it. Even now, he doesn't quite believe it.

The Duke of Warwick is dying in his bed instead of on his feet.

"I think he's given up." Izuna's hand twitches. "He's been sick for a long time now, but it's been worse in the last few months, after you wrote that you were coming home."

Something in Madara stretches angrily. _So he is guilting me into this then. _

He doesn't want to get married after all. Not at all.

It's just another one of Duke Tajima's tricks. He's tired of the thought.

"I should have known." He mutters, while staring out at the courtyards down below. "He would never admit to anyone that he's dying." _Much less write letters begging me to come home for it._

"I don't believe that." Izuna sits up so that their faces are less than a foot apart. "Father _is _dying, but he's determined to see you married well before he finally leaves Warwick to you. It might be better if you do so that he can die in peace."

"I wouldn't turn you out, married or not." The words slip from his tongue. "And I wouldn't do that to Mother either, so I don't understand why you would be concerned with it."

"You wouldn't." Izuna concedes. "But our cousins won't have the same compunctions, and you know they'll discredit me should something untoward happen to you."

Madara turns the thought around in his mind. Perhaps they wouldn't do it out of spite, perhaps they would try to be kind in the beginning, but it is hard to be kind to men who can take titles from you even if they don't. "Why don't we have a first cousin that I can marry again?" It would be more convenient than his plight now.

"Because we don't." Izuna stands and feels around for his shoes. "Will you walk me down?"

"And what will you have done if I really wasn't home?" Madara offers him an arm, and they walk down together. It is clear that the subject of duty and marriage is off the table now. Izuna is just Izuna once more. "You didn't believe I was home, remember?"

"Wait for a servant to remember me." Izuna shrugs and lets his feet find the way. "Or walk down by myself, because I'm well acquainted with the number of steps there are in this tower?"

"Oh?" Madara murmurs. _He does sound like the Izuna I remember. He is the same as ever. _Nevertheless, it is still hard to look directly at his face.

"There are a hundred and thirty-seven steps." Izuna faces forward, unseeing and suddenly frail. "And my room is thirty medium steps down the hallway after, on the left wall."

That he measures where he is in a space by steps instead of knowing, well, Madara's always been good at feeling guilt.

"I see." And he's always been the best at saying nothing.

"Have a good night, brother." Izuna pushes open the door and heads in, but he pauses with his hand on the doorframe, careful not to turn his full face towards Madara's. Even now, he knows that his brother doesn't want to look at his loss. "I'm glad you're home." A smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, and then the door closes.

Madara turns and traces his steps back to his childhood bedroom. Things are not where he left them, but his bags are there. He strikes a match and lights the candle on the desk.

The letter, Hashirama's words, weighs heavily in his breast pocket. He sighs and pulls it out. The red wax seal gleams in the low light. It looks like Hashirama was in a hurry, pressing his signet ring into the wax haphazardly.

He picks up a letter opener and breaks the seal. It smells like orange. He sighs once more. _Hashirama, why are you so dramatic? _He swears that the man lives on drama. _Does your paper have to smell like scented water? _

The two double sheets he pulls out of the envelope are a heavy cream, tanned and softened, folded neatly if not particularly precisely, and creased more by virtue of being in his breast pocket and tossed about on the trip up to Warwick.

Something about this letter is off.

Hashirama might be absent-minded, but this isn't just absence. There's a haste to the trappings of this letter that its flamboyance cannot hide.

Something heavy sinks to the bottom of his gut.

He unfolds the two sheets and sets them on the table. _Do I want to read this? _He folds his hands together, but they tremble all the same. He presses them together, nails digging into his skin through his black leather gloves, and curses the weakness in his heart.

It is only a letter written and posted with undue haste. It cannot kill him, but still he puts it off.

He picks it up again.

_Dearest Mada,_

_I must confess I feel guilty about writing to you like this when you have to go home with such haste. I know you must not feel well right now. You've most likely sat down after speaking to His Grace, and oh God. If I think too much about how much you're suffering, I shall go mad for certain. _

_Your father is feeling poorly, and I must write to you and — I should just tell you this straight out, you've never liked beating around the bushes or fancy words… _

There is an ink splatter here, as if Hashirama had paused too long, gripped the quill too tightly and forgotten to blot the page. Madara knows what he is about to say, forgives him of it even, but still, the knife twists deeper.

He does not want to continue reading.

He continues anyway.

_You've known about my engagement to Mito for a long time now, though you've never met her. She is not unkind, and she has been my friend since childhood. My father is eager to see us married. _

_It's gotten to the point where if I do not agree, I will hurt her future prospects. I don't have the heart to hurt her by breaking the engagement between us at such a point in our lives. I will not demean you or her by asking you to remain a paramour, but I am so bold to ask if you would remain my friend. I do not want to lose the respect between us… _

Another ink splatter, larger this time, and it is smudged to the edge of the page as if Hashirama had tried to brush away tears. What has been doomed from the very beginning is meant to end, but still it is painful nonetheless.

_Didn't I agree to my father's demands to get married? How is this any different? _

He continues reading.

_I am sorry, Mada. So sorry. I lo— _One and a half words written and smudged away.

_Hashirama_

The daft man had meant to write 'I love you.' Madara is infinitely thankful that Hashirama did not complete it and had the good sense to smudge it out. Seeing that would have been too much for words. The other sheet is an invitation to a wedding he will not attend. A drop of moisture lands on the card.

He angrily wipes the tears away. _If he didn't write to you about endings, you would have had to write to him. Be thankful that he's done you the favor._

He puts the corner of the letter into the candle and watches it catch flame and flicker out into ashes across the floor.

He pulls a piece of parchment out of the desk drawer, and drafts his own letter. He'd send it by pidgeon back to London in the morning.

_Hashirama,_

_I forgive you. _

_Madara. _

The act of doing so nearly shatters his quill, but he keeps the message away from the pooling ink. It is best not to let Hashirama think that it hurts him. The other man might keep himself up at night and worry too much.

And Madara does forgive him. Their relationship had begun with the understanding that they would have to go their separate ways. It is not as if Hashirama should ruin the girl for a crime that could get him beheaded. It is not as if Madara himself wants to be reduced to the status of a lord's illicit side lover.

It hurts all the same. Hurts his head and hurts his heart, but he has no one but his own self to blame. No one had forced him to love; all the dictates of society said that to do so would be folly.

Jealousy for the mysterious Mito still wars with his rational mind.

What he would he give to be in her place. What would he do to be so — _lucky. _

It does not good to continue thinking of it.

He plods tiredly towards his bed.

Things will look different in the morning. They have to.

* * *

**A.N. **And so it begins. The attack of the AUs. This one's been sitting in my google drive for a while now, but I've been recently back into writing for it, so have at it. I have about 6 chapters of this written? War of the Roses, here we come. (This is a very loose historical adaptation, I'll say this right now. Historical accuracy is only a thing when I like it, I'm afraid.)

And if anyone wants to come wack me for not updating my pre-existing things and opening too many WIPs, well, I wouldn't blame you.

~Tavina


	2. Something in the Wind

**Disclaimer: I do not own Naruto.**

* * *

"Sadly

We settle for

What we're used to

Even if what we're used to

Is pain."

— r. h. shin

* * *

Things do not look better in the morning. They did not look better for a full month. Her Grace fusses and frets and worries that he might have taken ill.

Madara assures her that it is not so, and avoids his father's attempts to summon him and people as much as possible.

To do this, he spends an inordinate amount of time hawking and studiously ignores all attempts to speak with him.

"Milord!" Yakumi cups his hands around his mouth and shouts from the edge of the field. "You have an early day tomorrow."

"I don't care to think of that." He has to travel to Islay for the trade talks with the Scots in the morning, and the twilight is deepening all around them. He doesn't want to think of it.

"His Grace would like the speak to you before you go." The Marshal is relentless.

It is most likely on the subject of marriage again. Madara is unrepentant. "We can speak when I return from Islay."

"That implies that you will be in any fit shape to travel to Islay in the morning, Milord." Yakumi urges his horse forward. "At the moment, since you've been hawking all day and drinking all night for the past week and haven't climbed out of bed before noon since two weeks ago, that is in doubt." The Marshal keeps a sharp tongue, but he had grown up with the older man.

It is easy to forgive him for the slights when they are, in fact, true. It is easier hearing these criticisms from a friend rather than a stranger.

Though, criticisms from strangers also have their place in this world.

"I'll be fit to leave tomorrow morning." He sends Garuda off before them, lets the hawk find its way home, and turns his own horse homeward.

"Are you certain?" Yakumi falls in behind him. "Milord, are you certain the trade talks will go well?"

"I'll not drink tonight." It's all he can promise. He'll sleep on the way if it comes to that. He'll be traveling with an entourage, so it'll take at least four days of heavy riding to even arrive in Islay to begin with.

"If you say so, milord." Yakumi takes the horse's reins when Madara dismounts in the courtyard. "But His Grace will be highly displeased."

Madara shrugs. _He can be as displeased as he likes. It will not help me or him. _

No, it is not his father that he faces at the dinner table, because his father does not leave his chambers these days. It is his mother, the formidable Her Grace Harumi Uchiha.

"We need to discuss your behavior." She's sitting at the head of the table in his father's absence, her hands loosely folded on her lap, her lips pressed tight. "I thought you made me a promise, my son. You'll find yourself a bride in two months time, or you will force me to make a choice for you."

He takes a seat at the table and under the weight of his mother's glare, feels ten years old again after just breaking a vase. "I don't want to—"

"I don't care if you want to discuss it or not." Her Grace gestures for for the servers to bring in the first course. "You will be the Duke of Warwick, and your behavior is entirely intolerable."

The shame burns his ears. The servants move as mechanically and invisible as ever, but they are there, listening, judging, and finding him lacking.

Perhaps they've been judging his behavior all month. "You will stop feeling sorry for yourself, and you will make an effort, or so help me—" She sighs and takes his hand. "I know it is hard for you. I know you are unhappy, but this is not about you."

He bows his head. "Of course, Mother. I understand." If he does not have a bride, and by extension, a son, then his cousins are perfectly allowed to turn his mother and brother out should he die.

Warwick is their home. He cannot let cousins, any sort of cousins, rob them of that. "You may plan my wedding after I come home from Islay."

It's unlikely that he'll find someone to fit his mother's criteria considering that he doesn't even have any idea where to begin. It sits uneasily with him to let it happen through no choice of his own, but he's running out of time.

"Make sure to return from Islay." He is about to protest that he's hardly going to _stay _there indefinitely among the Scots, but his mother pulls him into her arms and kisses his temple. "The roads are dangerous, my son. Keep your wits about you in Scottish territory. They have no love for the Crown."

"I will be careful." Mother does not let go. "There will be an entourage with me. All will be well."

It's true that the Scottish haven't much regard for the Crown given that they aren't truly a part of it. The man that he goes to deal with styles himself the King of Islay and South Scotland. He, an English baron, goes to treat with a Scottish King. The thought is halfway preposterous.

But there is much to say; there is even more to do; and Ashina Uzumaki had agreed to talks, so he goes to treat with a Scottish King.

He decides against riding in the carriage despite Setsuna's misgivings about the state of the roads. He has no desire to be black and blue by the time he arrives in Islay or slow the journey down by too much either.

The carriage can be smashed to bits, and he'd be happy to do a dance over the pieces. He hates the thing, and it's not as if he needs the status symbol. He might be going to meet a king, but it isn't the trappings that make the man, and any man who doesn't understand that doesn't have his respect.

Ashina Uzumaki can chose to trade or not as he likes. Madara is going to ride.

The mountains loom overhead, dark and grim. Yakumi slaps his reins against his horse's neck and trots up to Madara. "The land doesn't want to welcome us." He shudders slightly. "They have no love for Englishmen in these parts."

Madara's horse snorts and continues over the ridge. Madara turns in the saddle to look over at the uneasy marshal. "They were the ones who contacted us about trade. They won't attack us before we get there." At least, he doesn't think so. These mountains would make an excellent spot for an ambush by those who know the lay of the land.

The mountains do seem to have eyes, and there's a pricking between his shoulder blades trailing uncomfortably down his spine. _Bad faith. _What does he want from these talks anyway? For them to stop raiding the fields during harvest? Pearls? Whiskey? Gold? _A wife. _A random voice whispers. _If they can give me a wife, that would be nice. _He shakes the thoughts and the strangers' gaze from his shoulders. He has no idea if Ashina Uzumaki has any daughters, and he further doesn't want to think about getting married.

Even if he does have to think about it sometime. He doesn't want his mother to pick a woman out of hat, but it's not as his own abilities are any better.

The thoughts persist anyway, because his mind doesn't want to let it go. The mountains fade down into the sea and against the backdrop of the waves a ship bobs up and down on the surf. The gulls scream with human voices.

There's a man standing on the rocks by a boat. He has faded blue eyes and fiery orange hair. He looks surly, his arms crossed over his chest as the bay pounds behind him. "Lord Madara?" His voice is tinged with a thick scottish brogue, r's trailing. It's odd, but not incomprehensible.

Madara swings off his horse and throws the reins to Yakumi. "Yes." He steps forward a hand outstretched.

The other man clasps it, but his face doesn't change. "Asuran." He jerks his chin toward the ship. "Captain of the Storm Queen. She's been waiting for you."

Madara does his best to smile despite not entirely understanding. "Well, lead the way." He is here to meet their king, not their queen.

He might have chosen to ride instead of taking the carriage, but he does want to complete the trade deal. Warwick will benefit from it one way or another.

The ship shudders out to sea beneath his feet, and he alone stays top deck while the rest of his men retire below. He stands there with his cane in hand, leaning against the railing, watching the black water pitch and toss as the ship cuts through the waves.

He's not sure he likes the idea that there is only wood between himself and the water. "You're looking for land, aren't you?" The Captain's come to stand beside him. The man isn't all that old, but he is older than Madara.

His hands are weathered, rough, scarred from more than just hawking...and missing a finger on the left hand.

Madara glances over at him, noting the heavy tan on the Captain's face. "What?" It's been a long time since he's been addressed without 'Milord' following directly after.

The Captain shrugs. "It's what all Englishman do, search for land beneath their feet." The ship lurches. "She's making good time." The Captain notes. "We'll be in port by midday."

"Why do you call..." He's assuming that the mysterious 'she' the man is referring to is the ship itself. But why the feminine pronouns...he has no idea.

"Because she's a mother and a lover." The Captain pushes himself off the rail. "Because we depend on her not to be wrecked."

"Why should I trust you?" He's starting to wonder. The ship looks official enough. It hoists the spiral of the House of Uzumaki. The crew doesn't look like they're ill-liveried. It'd looked like a royal vessel from the outside. It looks like a royal vessel now from the inside.

"What?" The Captain drawls. "You think I want to be hunted by the English Crown for kidnapping a duke's son?"

When put that way... "No."

A slow smile draws across the man's face. "I used to be a pirate." He holds up his hand and winks. "But don't worry, I've always worked for my king." And with that unsettling statement, he walks off, barking orders to members of the crew.

Madara's stomach rolls. The deck heaves.

He can't see any land on the horizon and now he's _worried. _

If the man — his name is Asuran — will risk the wrath of his dying father and does decide to kidnap him and the rest of his men...well, it doesn't bear thinking about.

He spends a very terrible two hours thinking over every decision and lamenting that Ashina Uzumaki did not tell him who he was supposed to meet to cross the strait.

But as it turns out, whether or not the Captain and his crew are pirates, they sight land by midday as predicted. The port city is down below, nestled into the shadow of black cliffs, a sprawling mass of colorful buildings painted in all the shades of a dawning sky. Above them, atop the cliffs sits the castle, hewn from dark gray stone, four spires rising into the sky, the surrounding walls as gray as the castle itself.

The ship pulls slowly into port, and the Captain orders the gangplank lowered. Madara begins the descent, and his men follow in a single file line. They are uneasy, strangers in a strange land. Madara makes sure to stride down assuredly, despite his legs not entirely obeying him as they ought.

He does not like seafaring journeys. He does not like how wobbly he must seem when touching dry land once more.

There is a young man standing on the docks in a loose fitting tunic and hose with a black cloak thrown over his shoulders. Madara spies the glint of a rapier hilt by his side. A nobleman at the very least then.

He has windblown black hair of medium length, a pale face and icy blue eyes. He looks chiseled from marble, unusually beautiful with sharp features and a pointed chin.

"Kyoya Anharaya." He offers Madara a long-fingered hand. _I've only just made my way off the gangplank._ "I will be your escort into Uzu Castle." He speaks the King's English as though he's just blown in from London. It is unexpected in this land where the sailors speak a tongue he can barely make out while paying attention, and the Captain speaks with a heavy accent.

"Madara Uchiha." The other man hadn't offered any titles. Madara does the same. "I am the Englishman who wants to speak to your king." They shake hands.

Kyoya smiles at the Captain as he disembarks. When he opens his mouth again, it is back to that nearly incomprehensible accent. "It's good to see you home, Asuran." He just barely makes out the words, but the good cheer in them is so easy to note.

The Captain guffaws. "I only left land yesterday evening, my prince." Kyoya Anharaya is an acknowledged bastard then. He wears his mother's name but his father's regard since the king's man calls him a prince.

Yakumi shifts uneasily on next to him in the balls of his feet. _What's gotten into him? _Of course, they are in a foreign land among strangers, but it's not as if the Scots are barbarians.

And even if they are, it's not as if Yakumi would be the first person to die, that dubious honor would fall on Madara himself. He'd be the one with the most expensive price on his head, after all.

The party, headed by Prince Kyoya, winds toward the castle which looms large now that they are closer.

They clatter over the drawbridge and the moat into the bustling outer courtyard. There's noise and light, some sort event going on. There are men streaming in and out of the gates towards what looks like a tourney field, but Prince Kyoya cuts through the teeming mass of people like a broadsword through a length of silk.

Every servant who passes him bows quickly before making way. Prince Kyoya offers them all a curt nod before continuing to stride forward. He is used to respect then, Madara notes. And other people are used to giving him respect.

"My king is in the blue room." He glances back. "It will not house all of your men." He looks over the crowd, scanning it for a face. "Chihaya!"

A girl appears from the mass in a dull, steel gray dress. She bobs a curtsy in Kyoya's direction. "Your Highness?"

"Would you show Lord Madara's men to their quarters?"

"Of course, Your Highness." She bobs another curtsy and gestures for the men to follow her. Most of them go. Yakumi stays behind.

Kyoya raises an eyebrow at him, but says nothing.

The Marshal steps forward, his chin raised. "I don't trust you, bastard." An explicit declaration of mistrust towards someone who is clearly important to the state of Scotland is such a bad idea.

Madara could pinch the bridge of his nose and bemoan the state of the Marshal's sharp tongue, or he could attempt to apologize for his man's lack of tact.

Parentage is a sensitive topic. Duels have been fought for mere insinuation, and this isn't an insinuation so much as a bold-faced frontal attack. Perhaps he is supposed to be displeased that King Ashina had sent a bastard son to greet his party at the docks, but he rather suspects that this is the son that the King of Scots loves better than all others, and as such, not really an insult.

Kyoya smiles. "Telling me that you don't trust me is a very bad idea of yours." He leans in close to Yakumi, his tone as sharp as a dagger. "Insulting my king is also a bad idea of yours." He turns and begins to lead the way through the airy halls to the blue room. "Please refrain from being insulting, and I shall refrain from running you through with my sword." He's ignored the word bastard. Strange, for a bastard to not care about being called so.

Most are sensitive, but Kyoya has focused on the insult to his father. _They are close then, King Ashina and his bastard son. _

"He has a sharp tongue." Madara smiles at the other man who has turned to regard him with heavy blue eyes. "It gets him in trouble, please do not take offense to it."

Similar platitudes pass Hashirama's lips on a daily basis, and they are not something that Madara would normally think to say, but at the moment, it pays to be polite.

If Kyoya Anharaya is indeed King Ashina's best loved son, earning his trust will be important for the trade talks to come. At least, he ought not earn his ire.

Kyoya blinks. "If you are concerned about whether or not I am personally insulted, the answer to that would be no." He smiles, too many teeth and too sharp cheekbones, at Yakumi. "I know my place in the world."

A vein jumps in Yakumi's jaw, but Madara strides forward, and the Marshal says nothing further.

They walk in silence toward an audience with the King of Scots.

Kyoya pushes open a heavy wooden doors, pale hands a stark contrast against the dark wood of the doors. "The visitors are here, Father." The man standing by the window nods to his son.

The King does not wear a crown and dresses in plain clothes which is odd. He has fading red hair and gnarled hands, a faint scar on his neck. He sits down by the large bay window, and the afternoon sunlight casts his face in shadow and makes him difficult to look at. Dust motes dance in the golden light, and the walls are hung with rich blue tapestries. The chairs are upholstered with royal blue fabric. The books strewn across the desks are bound with dyed blue leather.

It is indeed the blue room.

So much dye had to have been expensive. The Scots are richer than he'd expected. They are richer than anyone might have expected. He's the first Englishman here in Islay, that he's heard of anyway, since the war with the French his father fought in his youth.

"Baron Uchiha." The King extends a hand. "I hope your trip was well."

Yakumi shifts once more, uneasy. Madara curses him in his head. _I did not bring you so that you may ruin the talks, Marshal. _

Madara pastes the smile he'd learned in London to his lips and does his best to seem jovial. "It went well, Your Majesty. We made good time." This is not his king, but the man before him is a king, and worthy of that respect.

He is here among the Scots in Islay. He ought to at least respect the man. "I believe we are here to negotiate terms of for a trade of goods?" Once again, he wonders if the heavens would be kind enough to drop a woman into his lap from the sky. Preferably one of enough status to please his mother and fulfill his obligations.

Knowing his luck, the heavens will favor his mother.

"Yes, but of course, do sit." King Ashina gestures to the chair opposite his. Madara sits.

Kyoya moves to stand behind his father, a hand on the hilt of his rapier. He does not wear armor.

Neither does Madara or Yakumi.

Madara's grip tightens on his cane. It does not look like a sword, the hinge and clasp is cleverly concealed in the design of it, the only thing to give it away is a hairline crack. It does not look like a sharp weapon, and as a result, he can bring it anywhere he likes without being offensive.

"You must be tired from your journey." King Ashina steeples his fingers and smiles. "I have set up lodging for your men."

The chair is comfortable, and the room is arranged in such a way as to be pleasing. There's a vase of blue wildflowers in the King's desk. It does not look like an addition that a common servant would make. Perhaps it is a gesture by the Queen?

So it is to be tea and pleasantries first. If it is to be that, he won't protest it. "Your hospitality has been excellent." So what if it is a bastard prince who met him at the docks? House Uchiha is related to royalty through his grandmother, but he is farther removed from the throne of England than Kyoya is from being the King of Scots.

Not to mention, a prince is a prince, bastard or no, and this one is both acknowledged and much loved by his father by the look of things.

There is a warm breeze from the sea, and even here, on the cliffs there's the smell of salt drifting from the window, the dull crash and roar of the waves down below. The water is pervasive. It fills the senses, sight, sound, scent, touch, taste.

"You are in mourning for someone." The King nods towards his black clothes.

"No." He shifts in his seat, grip on his cane loosening. "It's merely the style in London." It really isn't, but he's resisted changes to his wardrobe well. He will not wear red and white and lace and gold. The gaudy trappings of prestige and titles have always seemed slightly mocking to him.

"I see." The King taps his steepled fingers together and regards him for a long silent moment. "Perhaps we should speak of business after the welcome feast. You will less tired from the journey then." Songs and pleasantries. They will have broken in the stiffness between them and convene again in a more jovial mood.

It's a good plan for both sides.

To succeed there must be some form of trust between them. His men will most likely be more amenable to the deals as well.

"It's a good plan." He concedes with a smile and a nod. "We shall be certain to not intrude over much on your hospitality."

The king smiles slow and soft. Madara feels the warmth of it down to his bones. _A kindly king. How odd. _"Islay is my home, and open to you as it is to me."

Prince Kyoya escorts him to his chambers near silently with the Marshal's glare on the back of his head.

The door clicks shut behind him. "I don't think we ought to—"

He cuts across Yakumi's protests with a glare. "Do not mock our hosts, Yakumi. They are not barbarians." The prevalent philosophy in London is that the Scots are cruder somehow, less, but he hasn't seen much difference between himself and these Scotsmen. "They build castles, sing songs, calculate sums, and write stories. Do not think that we are so much more than they are."

Yakumi falls silent.

"Give me your clothes." He holds out a hand. Yakumi blinks once in complete bafflement. "Oh for God's sake." Madara mutters as he throws up his hands. "Just go find everyone else. They won't kill me and risk war with the throne."

Yakumi examines him for a long moment and then leaves.

Madara waits for his footsteps to fade away down the hall before he opens his bag and pulls out the oldest set of clothes that he owns. It is not as good as borrowing the Marshal's clothing, but it will be good enough.

He's restless, and the courtyard is just down below. He's been allowed the rare opportunity to witness the heart of Scotland. Edinburgh might be the Church's seat, but Islay is House Uzumaki's ancestral seat, and they still rule from the castle on the cliffs and the port city below.

He throws the end of his cloak over his shoulder and glances down at himself. His clothing will not pass as Scottish for even an instant, but he will pass as one of his own servant men.

He steps out into the hall, searching for the path down to the courtyard. He doesn't make it to the same one that he'd passed through when he came in. Instead, he ends up in the tiltyard with a contest ongoing.

There's a small crowd gathered to watch as the horses thunder toward each other from opposite ends of the field.

Both figures are in full armor, visors down, one on a roan horse, the other on a blood bay. As he watches, they shatter their lances on each other's shields, and duly trot back to pick fresh ones from the pages at either end.

Both shields are painted with the red spiral of the Uzumaki sigil. _The King's younger sons then? _They might be the King's sons or his trusted knights, but either way, the display of athleticism is enjoyable to watch.

"I bet you four ryal that today's the day that Sir Ashiro unseats Sir Kanae." The man besides him grins and guffaws, slapping him in the shoulder.

Madara allows it. The man isn't one of his, and has no idea who he is. It doesn't bother him much. He turns to examine the field. "Sir Ashiro is the one on the blood bay?" _Sir Kanae. _It's a feminine name, but women are not knights, and on occasion, boys are named Kanae after the patron saint.

"You've got it backwards, good sir. Sir Ashiro's on the roan." They are not the King's sons then. A subject wouldn't refer to his king's sons by just their knightly titles.

The man on the blood bay is the better of his brother in arms in terms of skill. It's the way he holds his lance, the way his weight settles in the saddle. He does not look like he will be thrown from his horse any time soon. Madara itches to go a pass or two with him.

"I'll take your bet." Madara decides suddenly. "Four ryal that Sir Kanae throws Sir Ashiro."

They shake on it, and just in time too, for the horses come back around the tiltyard.

"A hit!" A boy cries as the horses meet. "A hit for Sir Kanae!"

The knight on the roan horse goes flying into the dust. "Aw hell." The man besides him mutters. "I should've known that Sir Kanae'll never lose." He passes Madara four ryal, and Madara nods to him once.

The man shuffles away.

"You gotta hit me so hard?" The downed knight groans from his place flat on his back. It doesn't seem as though he's even attempting to get to his feet for a sword duel.

The horses' training is excellent, Madara notes. Other horses wouldn't be so docile as to stay so still after a joust. Clearly, these two joust often.

He starts forward to speak to the winning knight. It's always nice to meet another who's fond of the sport.

Sir Kanae swings off his horse, and laughs, giggles ringing out in the tiltyard. "Oh, but brother mine, did you think I didn't practice while you were away studying books?" He has a high sweet voice. "You've been slacking with the lance while you charm the ladies in Edinburgh."

He's also rather short now that he's off his horse, at least a full head shorter than Madara himself.

"Sweet sister mine," Sir Ashiro moans from the ground. "That is still no excuse for you to hit me so hard."

Sir Kanae rips off his — her helm, and a tangled mane of red curls tumbles free. She has laughing green eyes, a sharply angular face, a teasing smile. _A woman, and a knight. How odd. _

Madara admits it to himself. He's intrigued.

He hasn't met a lady knight before. Not that this is a meeting, but it is unusual nonetheless. _Would she agree to a match if I proposed one? _That she is a woman doesn't diminish her skill with a lance.

"A grown man worried about how hard he's been hit?" She offers her brother a hand up. "Such a crying shame."

Sir Ashiro ruffles her hair with a free hand. "Well, at least we know that Big Brother taught you well."

She huffs, crossing her arms over her chest. "I'm the one that beat you, not Big Brother, not anyone else. Little Kanae beat you in a tilt, fair and square." She walks off the training field with her brother's arm still thrown over her shoulder.

"Sir Kanae." He calls after them. His feet take a step forward. "A match?"

They both turn toward him, but he's more fascinated with her green eyes. They are large against her pale face, and oh, what a face it is, sharp lines and edges with a hint of tenderness in the turn of her lips. It's a rare woman who's so lovely. "You're one of our guests, yes?" She lets go of her brother's arm and walks toward him.

He inclines his head. "Yes."

"I wasn't aware that the English approved of women in the tiltyard." The uptilt of her lips is wry and amused. The late afternoon sun sets her hair aflame. _Oh, if only she'd been a princess. _He laments it. This woman would be infinitely more interesting than anyone his mother will find for him. She's the most interesting woman he's met since Toka Senju.

If she'd been a princess, he would ask for her hand, and her titles would assure that she would be match enough for the seat at Warwick and his troubles would all be over.

But there's no use in lamenting what is not. At best she is the daughter of a Scottish nobleman, which would not be match enough for Warwick according to his mother's tastes.

"They don't." He tells her, matching her smile for smile. "But your talent is clear."

It's been a long time since he's been assured of a good tilting partner. The last had been at the tournament he'd won during Prince Indra's confirmation as crown prince.

She laughs, the golden sound of it ringing out over the stone. "An unusual Englishman, how quaint."

She nods to his cane. "Would you care to draw your sword, my lord?"

So she's noticed then that his cane is a sword. He straightens and switches it to a different hand. "Are you as good with a sword as you are with the lance?"

"No, my lord." Her hand falls to the rapier by her side. "I'm better in the tiltyard than a duel, I'm afraid, but alas, you do not have a horse with you."

"We can select a horse for him and fit him with armor if he needs that too." Sir Ashiro has made his way over. "And we can schedule a match for later. You're tired now. It won't be a fair fight." Sir Ashiro watches him with distrustful hazel eyes. Brothers, whether they be English or Scottish, are all the same, it would seem.

They guard their sisters well.

"Would that be amenable to you, my lord?" She seems disappointed. _Make that the most interesting woman that I have ever met. _

Toka had slapped him upon first meeting, but this is the first woman he's met who's been disappointed about _not _fighting.

"Tomorrow then."

She might not want to fight him after she learns his name. It is a crime to injure a nobleman, but if she scratches him, he wouldn't be overly displeased about it.

He won't be anonymous forever, but perhaps she might still want to take the challenge.

"Tomorrow." She agrees. "But I suspect we'll see each other tonight, my lord." A half bow, and her brother drags her away. She means the welcome feast then.

Well, it's likely that the surrounding nobility will be in attendance. She ought to be as well as a knighted lady.

_Oh, if only she'd been a princess. _

She would make the most scandalous duchess Warwick has seen in centuries. He'd pay good money to see her in Court.

* * *

**A.N. **So I have until Chapter 5 completely edited and written of this story, at which point I might as well share? Right? At least that's how the saying goes.

I'm officially home for the summer, and I have lots of chapters of things I'm super excited to share with everyone, so hopefully we'll see me updating more frequently!

That said, thank you to everyone who reviewed, favorited and followed! It always means a lot to me.

~Tavina


	3. Her Infinite Variety

**Disclaimer: I do not own Naruto.**

* * *

"We never realise how frozen we are

Until someone starts to melt our ice."

— Bridgett Devoue

* * *

"Milord." Setsuna gasps from behind him as he strides down the hall. "Where did you go all afternoon, Milord? We searched for you high and low."

He'd wandered about the courtyard, marveling at the small town that seemed to live within the castle walls and watched a blacksmith at his work. Perhaps he hadn't caught four words out of every ten in the crowded mass of sentences floating by him, but these people are the same as his people.

More red of hair, more prone to greeting him casually, more open than many of the servants at Warwick, but still, very much like his people.

It would be nice of his men could see it too.

"I stepped out of my rooms." He's wearing imported black silk, a long, stylishly cut tunic and hose with newly polished boots, still carrying his cane. "I needed some air."

"You should have told one of us, milord." Setsuna mutters. "At this rate, you'll get murdered in some corner and..."

"Are you saying that you want me dead?" His men speak entirely cavalierly about his death. Granted, he doesn't care too much for his own life, but his death would mean the breakdown of both Izuna and his mother's life. They ought to watch their tongues.

"N-no, of course not, Milord." Setsuna falls silent.

They continue on to the main hall. He's learned the pathways of the castle, or at least, he knows the well lit and travelled ones, due to his afternoon's worth of wanderings. He'd gotten more than one curious glance, but still, it is good to know the paths about.

There is a feast laid out, with what looks like the entire royal family in attendance, an elegant and demure lady on the arm of the King, Prince Kyoya right behind them and two other young men after them.

There's a throng of nobles all about them which parts as he arrives, some glancing in his direction discreetly, some openly. He ignores them all.

"Ah, Baron Uchiha." King Ashina greets his arrival with a warm smile.

"Your Majesties." He bows slightly for the Queen of Scots.

Naokano Uzumaki is a rumored beauty, as the Scots are proud to declare, the most beautiful woman in the world.

The Queen of Scots has a heart-shaped face, dark eyes, and bow-shaped lips. Her red hair is swept elegantly up into a bun. She has well earned the regard of her people. _She is indeed a beauty, but she is hardly the most beautiful woman in the world._

She curtsies. "Baron Uchiha."

"Is she not here yet?" One of the princes scans the room. "She and the Twins are supposed to be down by now."

"You know very well that Kanae would never miss the dancing, Korui." Another answers him.

The woman he'd met down by the tiltyard is close to the princes then. He supposes that it cannot be odd. She cannot be anything less than the daughter of a high lord, else she would not have been allowed in the tiltyard.

"Let us be seated first." The King gestures for them to take their seats at the high table. "They will appear when they do and not because we fret over them."

"Oh, but it is frightfully rude." The Queen murmurs, her hands clasped tightly together. "I am sorry that it is so."

"The Twins have long been at Edinburgh, and Kanae is close to them." Kyoya murmurs. "It is not unusual that they would be late now." He helps the Queen into her seat. "So do not worry over them, my queen. The three of them will appear when they are done with their play."

The Queen sighs, smoothing her hands over her full skirts as she sits, though she does save a small smile for her husband's bastard son.

Madara adds forgiving to her list of virtues. There are not many women in the world who would be so kind to their husband's by-blows. Clearly Naokano Chigusa is more worthy of being queen by her virtues instead of her beauty.

There might be more beautiful women in the world. It is unlikely that there are more virtuous ones. Prince Kyoya looks older than either of the princes at the table, and it is not unlikely that there are those who support his claim to the throne of South Scotland, yet they seem like a family content in their places.

What a strange affair.

"My terrible twins." She murmurs. "My strong-minded daughter." She raises her head. "I do hope that you'll forgive them for not being here to welcome you with the rest of our family, Lord Uchiha."

His lips smile, and he says some pleasantry or other, but his mind is whirling.

_The Queen's daughter. _

_So she is Sir Kanae Uzumaki, Princess of Scots._

He could laugh aloud, it is so funny. Hadn't he asked the heavens to send him a woman whose titles would make his mother happy?

Hadn't the heavens then combined that with the most interesting woman he's met? Perhaps his luck is turning for the better.

"I don't blame them the slightest." His mood is better than it has been in months. Hashirama's letter had been one more straw, and his father's summons home had been the beginning of the end, but tonight, tonight he forgets it all. "Had I not been my father's eldest son, I would also have much loved to miss greeting guests in my best clothes."

The Queen smiles, but does her best to hide it behind her fan. She has laughing eyes like her daughter.

And speaking of daughters…

"My apologies for being late, Father." Sir Kanae Uzumaki appears from the crowd. There are two identical young men behind her. One of them is Ashiro, the other...must be his twin. She curtsies. "Mother." She is wearing a blue dress with red spirals twisting like waves over the bodice, and her hair is pinned up elaborately with black pearls and netting, but it still shines in the candlelight like a lit flame, like freshly spilled blood. "Lord Madara Uchiha." She curtsies once to him too, green eyes laughing, and takes the seat across from his.

"Sir Kanae." He can't keep the smile from his lips. _A lady knight. A princess. Goodness, what else are you? _"I see you were correct about meeting tonight." He will have to ask later, how she guessed that he was the lord her father was to speak with, and therefore seated at the high table. He was sure that his disguise was perfect.

"You have met Baron Uchiha then, Little Storm?" The King watches his daughter with inscrutable eyes.

"By the tiltyard, my lord father." She sets her hands under the table. "Lord Uchiha has agreed to be my jousting partner for a few rounds tomorrow."

"Brave man." Prince Korui mutters. "Sister mine, has he seen you joust? Does he know the stakes?" _What a strange way to put it. There is only my pride on the line._

The table breaks into muffled snorts and open chuckles. "True, true." Mutters the twin he does not know. "Any who agrees to joust our Little Storm on the morn is a brave brave man."

"Brother Mine." Sir Kanae smiles, sharp and sweet with far too many teeth. "I will have you know that Lord Uchiha is a braver man than you."

More than one person at the table bends double and laughs uproariously into their soup.

"She's right about that one." Prince Kyoya mutters in Prince Korui's direction. "You are notoriously a coward, Brother."

Prince Korui holds a hand up in surrender. His eyes are laughing despite the accusations of faint-heartedness leveled against him. "I can fully attest that I have not a half of your bravery, Big Brother, nor do I suffer half your propensity towards injury. I value my bones more unbroken. I'm afraid. If that is cowardice," he shrugs his shoulders. "Well, I cannot protest it can I? Not when it's true."

It feels more like a family dinner than it does a formal affair.

It feels like a family dinner where the family actually exists and enjoys speaking to one another.

In short, it feels nothing like Warwick.

"I hear that you were studying in Edinburgh?" He asks one of the twin princes. "What subject?"

"Aruta." The prince extends a hand. "You met my brother by the tiltyard, getting thrown about by my little sister."

"He acquitted himself admirably." Better to hedge. It wouldn't be polite to laugh at the plight of a prince, despite that prince's brother inviting him to laugh. Still, he notes that Prince Aruta has a small scar on his left hand, unlike Prince Ashiro who does not.

"And to answer your question, I study philosophy and astronomy." _The stars. _

_Izuna. _"I see." His tongue trips onward. "My brother studied astronomy as well in the Observatory in London."

"He used to?"

He should not have mentioned Izuna if he is not prepared to explain. It is just that...he is used to people knowing by now. "He was blinded during an investigation there."

"I am sorry to have mentioned it." Prince Aruta remarks. "If he has any theories, and a person to dictate his letters, he may always write to me at St. Giles in Edinburgh. I shall return there in the coming months, as will my twin brother."

"I'm sure that he will be glad of it." It would give Izuna something to do. The offer is more than generous. Prince Aruta hasn't met him before today, and he's certainly never met Izuna.

The conversation moves to other topics.

It does not feel like a business negotiation. It doesn't even feel like a King and his subjects. It just feels like dinner with a party going on in the background.

It is pleasant.

His men seem to agree as they laugh and joke with the people seated around them.

Tonight the wine flows like water, and the music is loud enough to be heard but not enough to drown out the conversation.

The food winds down, and now the dancing begins.

_Brother. Brother, if you want to marry this woman on a whim, you should at least check to see if she'd agree to it. _

Sometimes, he has thoughts, and they sound like Izuna speaking in his head.

He hadn't thought about this before.

Sir Kanae Uzumaki would suit his mother's wishes in letter if not in spirit, and from what he understands, would be a highly interesting English duchess, but he has no idea how to even mention the subject and no idea that she would _want _to be an English duchess. That is her decision really, so he ought to ask.

He stands. "Sir Kanae?"

"Lord Madara?" She turns to him with those striking green eyes which seem to look right through him, a hint of a question on her tongue.

"Do you dance as well as you joust?" If he is serious about the matter, and dire times calls for dire actions — He is seriously considering asking for the hand of a woman he'd met just this afternoon — then he would like to ask the lady first.

Perhaps King Ashina is more power hungry than he knows and would push his daughter towards an advantageous match. He would rather not have a miserable bride, or live with someone who hated every fiber of his being for the rest of his natural life. He offers her a hand.

The curve of her smile feels faintly like lightning at his fingertips. "Why, Lord Madara," and his given name on her lips sharpens every edge that he sees until the world is bold in its clarity. "I dance better than I joust." _This is...attraction? _

Most of his attractions are tangential. He'd noted that her eldest brother is beautiful, had noted that her mother is gracious, But this, this is something else.

She has every possibility to be as mesmerizing as a lit wildfire.

She sets a gloved hand in his, and they make their way to the dance floor. It is a waltz, and it has been a long time since he's danced — he'd kept to himself in London — but still, he steps on no one's feet while he dances.

"Are we unlike the people you know?" She asks as he dips her back in time with the down beat. She really is an excellent dancer, almost, perhaps almost better than she'd been in the tiltyard.

"Why do you ask?" They spin quickly, a square sequence of steps, and then she spins out before he pulls her back.

"You looked at us as though you were surprised during dinner." She tells him, a breathless smile on her lips.

"I will answer your question if you answer one of mine." His hand is on her shoulder, and they stand an arm's length apart, but still, his blood hums.

"Well, what is it?"

"How did you know I was a lord? I thought my disguise was perfect." It is not the question that he'd wanted to ask. This is tangential, this has nothing to do with saving his mother and his brother and bowing to his father's demands or doing his duty to Warwick. Still, this is what his accursed tongue had decided to ask, and he had wanted to know.

She giggles. "Your clothing might have been old, but the stitching was fine." He spins her and pulls her back. "And your boots and cane were new."

So his disguise had not been as perfect as he thought. "I see." He will have to make it better next time. Perhaps people spent less time paying attention in London, or maybe he has too recognizable a face to go unnoticed, but that is still no excuse for bad disguises.

"But do not worry, Ashiro did not notice even if I did." She squeezes his hand. "Will you answer my question?"

"Yes." He pauses for a moment to remember what that question is. "You are unlike my expectations." It does not seem enough. "Dinner with the Crown of England is a tense affair. I thought it would be the same here."

He cannot say that he goes often, but he is his father's representation in court, and Warwick is a dukedom, and they are still, tangentially, his relatives. He has been to dinner and feasting with King Hagoromo and the two princes more than once.

He has a strong desire not to go again.

The dance has ended, but she has yet to let go of his hand.

For the briefest of moments, he doesn't register this.

"Well, I always knew we were better than the stuffy English." She seems to take this cheerfully in stride. "Are you taking my next dance as well? It's a reel." But then she seems to change her mind. "Actually, being English, you might not know how to dance the reel." She pulls him away from the center of the great hall, and out one of the side doors into what looks like an entrance to the kitchen. "We can practice it outside so that you don't embarrass yourself."

"Are you sure we don't require a chaperone?" She really has to be the most fascinating person he's met, period. Surely, surely, most women think a little more before they drag men they've only met that afternoon to private places.

She blinks up at him. "Well, if you try anything funny, I can always stab you with my dirk."

For a moment, everything is silent. He feels the laughter bubble up from somewhere deep within, and vainly, he tries to suppress it. Trying does no good. It bursts from him like water breaking down a dam, and he _howls. _"I-I really...suppose you could."

"Are there more people like you in England?" She pats his back reassuringly as he fights to get his air returned to him, because the mental image just _won't leave. I can always stab you with my dirk..._With such an innocent face! It's no use. No use at all. _You speak like you have experience. How many men have you had to stab with your dirk? _"Because Lord Madara, so far you've shattered every expectation I have of Englishmen."

"Have I?" He half wonders what sorts of expectations she has of Englishmen, and if they are remotely similar to his former impressions of Scottish princesses.

"Well," she says airly. "You are not a scandalized suitor who steps on my toes when he hears that I can stab him with a dirk."

"Not scandalized no." He agrees. "You should try entirely enchanted."

"Are you saying that you are a suitor then?" Her ghost green eyes have seen right through him, and he thought he was being so discreet about the matter as well.

"Yes." It's not as if he'd get anywhere by lying.

She freezes for a long moment. "Well, that is unexpected." She mutters slightly. "I asked because I was joking." She turns to regard him directly, meeting his eyes with her own. "Are you certain you're a suitor? You drank a good deal of wine at dinner today. You haven't confused me with someone else that you know?"

"I am not drunk or crazy if that is what you mean." Very true, he must seem insane. He'd what, watched her joust, spoken to her passingly at dinner and then taken her for one dance before announcing his intentions for her hand? He sounds insane even to himself.

_What, have I taken a leave of my senses? _Izuna would laugh himself silly if he could see the sight of his brother, who has always avoided all conversation of marriage, especially in the hearing of marriageable women, in his current situation.

He is not insane, not exactly, but how on God's green earth is he supposed to explain? It would be offensive to say that he needs a bride by necessity and that her titles fit the bill. It wouldn't explain how interesting he finds her.

"It's a good thing that I asked you to joust tomorrow then." She claps her hands together. "You may do what all of my suitors have done since I turned fifteen."

"Mmm?" He hasn't the faintest idea what jousting has to do with his request.

"When I was thirteen, I declared that I would only marry a man who could best me with a lance. My lord father is an indulgent one and has decreed that since I wish it so, he will not give my hand to any less than a man who can win me in the yearly joust." She's perfectly serious. "And since you aren't crazy or drunk, you must've asked me because you haven't found someone else to ask, which implies that there's a reason you have to get married rather soon." She leans in. "For future reference, Lord Madara, it's best if you try to romance the woman a little longer than an afternoon and a dance if you want her to say yes to a marriage proposal."

His ears burn. "So," he says slowly. "If I best you with a lance tomorrow, after say, three passes, then I win your hand in marriage?"

She blinks at him and sighs. "Yes. But I should warn you that it has been two years since I started this contest, and I am still as much a part of my father's house as ever."

"And your father would agree to this?" He's a bit...surprised by this cavalier attitude the King has toward his daughter's marriage. What if she's bested by a hedge knight? Would she actually marry said hedge knight, even if he is good with a lance?

Would a hedge knight have a chance at winning the crown of Scotland through his wife?

"Well," she considers it, head tilted to the side. "You're English, so maybe he'd want better trade agreements with you before he consents."

"So if—" This is so far from what he'd been expecting that he's not sure how to feel about this at all.

"I'm trying to give you advice about life, Lord Madara." A servant appears at the other end of the hall, spies the two of them standing about an arm's length apart, and scuttles away. Sir Kanae pays them no attention. "The next time you attempt to court a woman, you should do so with a little more tact and slightly longer than you attempted to this time around."

"There won't be a next time." If he doesn't win her hand tomorrow, then he'll be married off less than two weeks after he sets foot back over Warwick's threshold.

"So confident." She catches his elbow as he turns to go. "Are you really so good at jousting?"

Not hardly. He'd bested sixty-three others for the prize money at Prince Indra's confirmation, but that was nearly six years ago. London isn't exactly the best place to practice jousting, and he had never expected his skill in the tiltyard to mean all that much.

Madara had entered that tournament on a whim, and the best jouster in the land had been in the stands watching the proceedings. It had been Prince Indra's birthday celebration, so he'd been reduced to the level of spectator.

He's not convinced that he'll beat her tomorrow.

"I wasn't referring to that." He mutters to himself. "If I don't find someone, my mother will, and I won't need to learn what you were telling me about for that."

"Oh." She lets go of him rather abruptly. "You're making me feel bad." She searches his features for a long moment. "Well, I do suppose it's your problem. We have to solve our problems by ourselves and not because other people feel sorry for us, you know?"

She leaves him alone in the hallway. He doesn't expect anything more.

_Only I can save myself. _Well, she's already said that she'll be his bride if he wins the joust.

He hasn't jousted competitively in years, but if he wants to save himself, then he'll have to joust, and he'll have to win.

"My Lord, you've been away from the great hall for a long time now." It is...not one of his men, but the girl that Kyoya had summoned in the courtyard.

Her name is... "Chihaya?"

She blinks. "Yes, Chihaya of House Okui, My Lord." She curtsies. "Her Majesty wants to see you in the Rose Room."

The Queen of Scots wants to see him. _Does she meddle with her husband's policies? Are they a united force, or two distinct ones? _He doesn't know, but it's best not to keep a queen waiting. "Well then, please lead the way."

She turns and leads him through a series of hallways. Prince Kyoya had called for her among all the servants in the courtyard, the Queen asked her to find him.

_In the confidence of both the eldest prince and the Queen. _She's more than she seems, Chihaya of House Okui.

"He's here, Your Majesty." Chihaya announces him without touching the door.

Silence. A beat. Two. "Come in, My Lord."

Chihaya steps aside, and he's the one who pushes open the door.

The Queen sits on a low divan, her hands folded in her lap. There's a knight in full armor standing at her shoulder, visor down, but other than that, they are the only two people in the room.

It's a very private audience. Tension crackles down his spine. Would this be a slight in the eyes of a Scotsman? King Ashina had not seemed like a man with a hair trigger temper, but men are often not what they seem, and love makes a fool of even the most rational mind. For all that he treasures his bastard, the Queen of Scots is his wife.

"His Majesty knows that you are here." She smiles, soft and centered. Her back is iron straight, her shoulders level. "There is no one to judge your coming, Lord Uchiha." She gestures to a chair before her. "Do sit."

"Chihaya said that you wished to speak to me." He sits, hands folded over a knee, his cane leaning against his leg. He still doesn't know why the Queen wants to see him.

"Kanae tells me that she asked you take her challenge." The Queen watches him with dark eyes. "You do not have to feel forced to take it." She doesn't shift or move, regal and gentle, more so than most nobility he's met.

This Scottish queen can outshine any refined lady in Court for her graces aren't a front for more dangerous intent. There's a certain genuine kindness in her dark eyes. _The regard of her people is well earned. _

"She hasn't forced me to do anything." News travels fast between the Princess and the Queen. He hadn't stood in the hallway pondering his own convictions for all that long. "But I do want to ask for her hand."

"You have not known her long, My Lord." The Queen gestures towards the silver candlesticks, and the knight moves over to light them. "My younger daughter is headstrong and wild. His Majesty has not much tempered her, and instead taught her warcraft and how to manage his state affairs. I'm sure you've already seen how her brothers indulge her fighting prowess." She does not find what she's looking for in his eyes and sighs. "I am sure you understand that she will be no conventional duchess. We are aware that most men would find such a thing trying given time no matter how they profess to love her. I will not have my daughter change her nature even if she marries English."

"I didn't want one." The Queen raises an eyebrow at him, and he continues. "I don't have any interest in a conventional duchess." Considering, considering Hashirama, considering everything, he hadn't quite fit the definition of conventional for a very long time.

He admires Sir Kanae's quick-tongue, her inquisitive nature, her friendliness that is not quite forwardness, her willingness to take risks — it is her unconventionality that strikes a chord in him.

He sees in her, all the options he longs to take, to buck tradition and stand his ground, but he suspects that the Queen has other reasons for asking about his intentions to join the lists. "Does His Majesty not approve of me?"

Warwick is a dukedom which means he is hardly an ill-suited suitor, but he is an Englishman. Perhaps the King of Scots, despite his daughter's nonchalance, really doesn't prefer an English son-in-law. It might be true.

"We are concerned," The Queen allows, but says nothing more.

The knight in the background snaps a match in half and fumbles with the candles. The Queen doesn't turn around to look.

She's really a rather short knight. _Listening on my conversation about you with your mother, aren't you? _A small shred of amusement wraps around his heart. _Are you as curious about me as I am of you? _

She is a sight younger than his twenty-four years if she has only just turned seventeen, yet still, she does not seem like a young woman who has seen only seventeen summers come and go.

For all her happy almost teasing disposition, her eyes had held such worldly knowledge. He wonders what she's seen to make them so. A princess so young has every right to be spoiled, and while she's certainly playful, in the first blush of youth, she's no spoiled daughter of a powerful man.

"Because I'm English?" He has to know. What does the Crown of Scotland think of Englishmen?

"Because we think that you've had too short an acquaintance to be truly comfortable with each other." The Queen leans forward slightly, but she does not seem forward. The distance between them is still considerable.

There will be no misunderstandings here.

Truly the Queen of Scots is a virtuous woman.

"Please understand that this isn't a slight against your character, Lord Uchiha." Unlike other women, she looks him in the eye when she speaks, no less dignified when she speaks than when she moves. "It is only the concern of a parent, who may have to send her daughter a great distance away to a foreign land should you win."

He sees no lie in her dark eyes, only concern and empathy.

The thought bothers him, but only just. He has considered taking this woman's daughter to, as she says, a foreign land far from the people who would love and cherish her.

Still, he has his own concerns, and they will not be subsumed by the entreaties of a mother, no matter how well intentioned.

He has to care about his own mother's future before he cares for someone else's suffering heartache.

Men die all the time after all, and he is only a man. It is human nature to be selfish, to care for the things that matter the most to each at the cost of others. The thought turns his stomach, but if that's what he must do to survive, then so be it.

"I will keep your concerns in mind, Your Majesty." He allows after a pause. "But I will enter the lists tomorrow."

"I see." She leans back until she is upright once more, her gloved hands twisted to knots in her lap. "Then I wish you the best of luck in your endeavors, My Lord."

She is still gracious in the face of strife.

Naokano Chigusa is truly a queen.

"Have a good night, Your Majesty." He rises to go, and the Queen nods to him once before she also rises.

That night is long, for he is still awake when the red dawn rises over the cliffs, bringing with it the scent of salt and the sound of the gulls.

* * *

The meeting room for the trade talks is in a small antechamber off the great hall. He'd broken bread with his entourage in their quarters early that morning, and they seemed in better spirits than the day before.

They are more willing to trust the Scots this morning than they'd been before the feasting and dancing last night at any rate.

He takes as a sign of good things to come.

Below, in the courtyard there are men going to and fro, setting out with refreshments and wood and cloth, stable hands hurrying about frantically clutching all the manner of tack in their arms.

They seem to be preparing for a tourney, which would make sense, given that he doubts a princess would be given away at an unofficial bout. They'd been preparing for this yesterday as well, so perhaps he would have been invited to the festivities if he hadn't decided to partake in them.

It also most likely means that he will have to defeat several people before he faces her in competition.

The thought amuses him a little more than it disturbs him. _Did you enter my name last so that I will be the most tired should I get to you?_

_How do you think of me? _

_Is it with as much interest as I think of you, or am I merely a mad Englishman?_

"Ah, Baron Uchiha." The King sits at a rather plain wooden chair with his eldest son by his shoulder. Prince Kyoya is dressed in dark blue this morning, the end of his cloak thrown over his right shoulder, leaving what appears to be his sword hand free.

_A left handed swordsman. How unusual. _"Your Majesty." He bows slightly. It doesn't do to respect a Scottish King more than his own. "I hope your night was well."

_I wonder if he will mention the tourney later today, or if we are to keep that matter separate from the trade discussions. Certainly he has to know that I am in the lists._

"It was." There is one other chair at the table. "Do sit."

He does. It is not a large table, and this barely counts as a large gathering, considering that there are only four men in the room — The King, Prince Kyoya, Setsuna, and himself.

He is barely more than an arm's length away from the most powerful man in South Scotland.

"As you are the visitor," the King folds his hands together and sets them on the table. "Why don't you begin?"

They want to see what he wants before they unveil what they want.

It's not the best hand to be dealt, but he's distracted. He hasn't jousted in years, how is he supposed to joust now? He hasn't won a tournament in years, but he has to win one today, or tomorrow. He doesn't even know how many people he has to defeat yet.

He reaches into his thigh pouch to retrieve the letters sent from various locations within Warwick's domain. "As of last spring, I began receiving correspondence from various monasteries in Warwick's dominion about Scottish raiders." His mother had started to send them ahead to his residence in London after his father had fallen ill. "I am not saying that they were by any means approved by the Crown of Scotland, but the matter remains that they have been greatly damaging to our grain storage, and I would like that to end."

"A reasonable request." The King pulls out papers of his own. "I have received reports from border towns in Scotland, which claim that Warwick and several surrounding English fiefdoms have been responsible for terrorizing the commons." He slides the papers across to Madara. "Understandably, I too, do not point fingers and say that they were authorized raids, but the matter remains that I am greatly concerned about the life and wellbeing of my people, and I would like them to end."

Madara picks up the first sheet, and scans it carefully. Had his father authorized these raids in retaliation? There are several that date from after he'd fallen ill.

A man on his deathbed may still give commands however, and he had religiously avoided speaking to his father before he left for Scotland so he has no idea whether or not they have been irritating their northern neighbors on purpose.

_I am an idiot. _

"Of course," he murmurs to himself more than anything else. "The damage on both sides has been considerable." There have been relatively few reported deaths as of yet, but the property damage — several towns have been burnt — is extensive.

"We may agree to do our best to end such hostilities then." King Ashina claps his hands together and smiles. "It is for the betterment of both our peoples."

"But only to the best of our abilities." Despite having spent the past seven years of his life in London, he doesn't think he's turned into a blockhead. "I will do my best to engage patrols in areas that show signs of banditry, but it is hubris to believe that I will be able to curtail all bandit attacks across the border."

"Then extend me the same benefit and consider it done." A crafty king.

Ashina Uzumaki is not entirely who he appears to be. He exudes the aura of a kindly king well enough, but there is a mind sharp as any blade behind that kindly smile.

Still, if hostilities do stop, it would work wonders for the relations between the Scottish and the English, and Warwick would be the first to have extended a hand to their northern neighbours. It is a crucial step in the right direction, and incredibly beneficial for Warwick's standing with the Crown should it succeed.

"Of course." He smiles and extends a hand to the man across the table. "I hope we're in agreement then."

"Perfectly." They shake on it.

But words, words are wind.

Nothing offered is nothing gained. "Warwick has produced an excess of grain these past few years." He will put that card on the table. Food in return for a secession in hostilities.

"And what did you have in mind to purchase?" The King watches him with narrowed eyes, lips pulled tight.

"These past few winters have been harsh. There's been an increased demand for wool." His mother had written to him about it, about sheep freezing to death in the fields, of people dying of the cold in their homes. He is not home often, but he does not want people to die when he can prevent it. "I was hoping that an agreement could be reached."

"Your demands do not include a bride." Prince Kyoya cuts in.

_Do all of them know about my blunder yesterday? Is that why the King was tense when I mentioned goods to sell? _

_Good God, I might be the mad Englishman, but I am by no means going to hold a trade agreement over his head for a wife. _

_A woman is not a good to be bought and sold. I'm asking for an equal not chattel. _And perhaps that's what has always bothered him about the other women who could potentially marry into Warwick.

They are well versed in courtly graces, but none of them had ever engaged him as a person rather than a title.

"Sir Kanae and I have an agreement." He folds his hands together over his cane underneath the table. "I will either win the joust, or I will lose the joust. The contest hasn't any bearing on the trade agreements we're discussing."

He'd asked for her hand, and she'd responded with a condition. He supposes that he could demand her hand from her father by holding the negotiations hostage, but he doesn't _want _to do that.

It would be insulting, for both her and him.

That is no way to begin a life together. He has no desire to be miserable.

"Well, we should discuss the specifics of the matter then, Baron Uchiha." The King glances over at his son wryly, and the conversation turns away.

* * *

**A.N.** The journey continues! Kanae is a great dancer, Madara is more than slightly intrigued, the Royal Family is a Family (TM) and politics is sort of happening.

Thank you everyone who reviewed, favorited and followed. This journey would be much less fun without you.

~Tavina


	4. In A Better World Than This

**Disclaimer: I do not own Naruto.**

* * *

"Be good to her,

She's rare."

— r. h. shin

* * *

"A moment of your time, Baron Uchiha." Prince Kyoya follows him out after the trade agreements conclude close to noon.

Madara pauses and turns around. "Prince Kyoya."

"My sister…" The man trails off with a sigh. "Likes dances and parties and celebrations. She is especially fond of sugared pastries. She is the youngest of us, so she has always had her way when we could give it to her, which means she has born no harsh disappointments in her life save for one. Her favorite flower is purple heather. She is never angry for very long. Her moods are like summer storms…"

His heavy blue eyes weigh on Madara's shoulders. "She loves too easily and cares too much."

"I—"

"I am telling you this in case you win." Prince Kyoya cuts him off. "I don't need you tell me anything about how you feel. Just know that there _is _a man in Scotland who can best her at the joust — the one who taught her to begin with." _And that man is displeased._ He turns on his heel, his dark cloak swinging out behind him.

In the passing breeze, his dark hair looks soft and feathery, like the wings of a moth. He's a tall man who holds himself with all the bearing of royalty.

_Are you trying to tell me that even if I win, you'll still be able to kill me? _

All elder brothers are the same. They want the best for their younger siblings.

Madara turns and walks in the other direction. Prince Kyoya might be the most beautiful man he's ever met, but that matters little in the grand scheme of things.

It is not beauty that he loves, nor is it beauty that he searches for.

The tourney starts at two hours past noon. If he does not ready himself, he will be late.

It's Yakumi who armors him up and leads his horse. "You really want to do this, milord?"

The Marshal is less jittery now, but still. Still, he doesn't approve of his liege lord's decision to participate in a jousting competition so far away from home.

Jousting isn't the most injury free sport.

"I haven't jousted competitively since Prince Indra was confirmed as crown prince." Madara puts his foot into a stirrup and swings himself into the saddle. "It'll be a fun diversion." He pulls his visor down. "And don't worry, it won't impact the trade talks. However this goes, fewer will freeze this winter than the last."

Well, unless he dies. But he's not going to die jousting against experienced opponents. Injuries are more a problem in an inexperienced field. With that, he accepts the shield painted with the sigil of House Uchiha and urges his horse forward toward the field.

He doesn't bother to tell the Marshal specifically why he's in the lists today.

There will be time for scandalized reactions later. He has a princess to win.

It is a field of twenty-five, twenty-six if one counts Sir Kanae. He will have to best them then, before he jousts the Princess.

At one side, the various suitors are gathered. On the other, Sir Kanae with her visor down, hoisting a black shield painted with a red spiral. She's riding the same blood bay he'd seen her with in the tiltyard.

Behind her, Prince Kyoya rides a chestnut gelding.

The murmur of voices from the stands puts him back in the mood. He'd liked jousting once upon a time, back when his death wouldn't mean abandoning Warwick to the wolves. He'd been good at it before.

The memories come back. He settles into the saddle.

King Ashina rises from his seat in the royal box. He raises his hands, and the crowd quiets. "Looking over the field of champions," The King begins. "I am heartened by the idea that I see so many willing to honor my daughter with your attention. I commend all of you here today for your valour."

The blood bay prances in place.

"And given that it has been two years already," There is a chuckle from the crowd. This is a beloved event then. Perhaps even a much anticipated one. "May the best jouster win."

"Let the draw begin." Prince Kyoya urges his horse forward a few steps. In his fist, he holds a handful of lots. He offers them to Sir Kanae who chooses one.

"My first opponent, Sir Daisuke from House Hoshigaki." She lets it drop to the ground and raises her lance. "Well met, my good sir."

So she plans to face each of the twenty-five alone. This is not a tourney but a challenge. He has even more respect for her now. It is no easy feat to joust tilt after tilt without much rest.

So now it only remains to be seen if he is lucky enough to go later in this cycle of knights.

A warrior with a moat and drawbridge on his shield snaps his visor down. "Well met, my princess." He bows, as much as he is able to in full armor. "May the best jouster win."

"May the best win." Sir Kanae agrees.

They turn their horses to opposite ends of the field.

The rest scatter back, and Madara does the same.

It is time to study her jousting habits.

She is not tense, her shoulders straight, her weight well settled.

No easy person to throw on that big blood bay despite her smaller stature.

She breaks only one lance before tossing Sir Daisuke to the dusty earth. Her visor comes up.

The crowd roars with approval. This will be a good show.

Her brother, Prince Kyoya, rides forward with the lots in his fist as Sir Daisuke smiles ruefully before clearing the field. "A good joust, Your Highness."

Sir Kanae spares him a nod. "A good joust, my good sir."

She picks the next lot. "Sir Kazashi from House Okui."

And so it goes, the field of knights shrinking from twenty-six to twenty-three, to twelve, to now at last, only two.

He is last then.

He does not think this has occurred by chance despite the drawing being apparently random. What it means though, is not for him to ponder on.

Sir Kanae snaps her visor down one last time. "My last opponent," She says as murmurs start to rise from the gathered crowd. Most likely they do not know his face or his coat of arms. A white fan over a red flame on a black shield is the heraldry of Warwick, a dukedom that does not belong to South Scotland at all. "Baron Madara Uchiha, Heir of Warwick."

An Englishman.

She lets the lot fall to the dust. "Well met, my lord."

He moves his visor down, as Yakumi passes him a lance. The smooth oak is comforting, even though he cannot feel it through his armor. "Well met, Your Highness." It is time.

He has watched her long enough.

She has tilted twenty-four before him, now far more tired than he is.

He is a better jouster than she thinks.

Still, the strike of her lance against his shield is strong enough to knock him back in his saddle.

No lance breaks.

They merely thunder past each other and turn to charge once more. The blood bay has a sheen of sweat on its coat.

Both lances shatter in the next pass.

His left side is certainly bruised from the strength of this last hit.

But if he is bruised after a mere two passes, her own bruises might be deeper and greener than his. If she aches, she does not show it.

Had she still been fresh, his arrogance would have lost him the bout, not in the first pass, but certainly in the second.

There is a dead hush in the stands.

He accepts a new lance from Yakumi.

"Are you sure you want to continue, my lord?"

He pays the Marshal no mind.

There will be time for thought later. Now, he merely has the next pass.

Perhaps she is tired, perhaps he is tense, perhaps he holds his shield lower than he ought to have — he is not used to the weight of armor anymore — his lance strikes true, but hers glances off of his shield straight towards his side instead.

The pain that blooms across his abdomen is sudden and sharp, but he does not lose his seat.

It is only her quick thinking that has her drop her lance and turn her blood bay away before they collide head on and break both their necks. "My lord?" She rips off her helm and leaps off her horse. "My lord, how is your side?"

From the other side of the field, Prince Kyoya urges his chestnut gelding forward.

Madara waves them away. "I am fit to continue."

She pauses there, a hand raised. "I did not mean—"

"I know." He does not suspect her of injuring him on purpose.

She has gone a good fifty passes in the tiltyard, and the sun had been in her eyes as it slides down to the horizon.

She cannot be blamed for the graze to his side.

"But I am fit to continue."

She leans down and picks up the blood soaked lance and her helm.

A storm of whispers rises from the stands, like flies hovering over a corpse. He will not win her today, but one more pass, one more to prove to the Scots that the English are not afraid of pain.

She swings back onto her blood bay and settles herself back into the saddle.

Before she snaps her visor back down, he spies concern moving in her green eyes.

The thought _burns. _

_I need no pity. _

His next strike hits true despite the sharp jolt of pain in his side, and so does hers, but even so her weight is not heavy against his arm.

She _faltered._ Out of pity? Out of concern? He cannot distinguish the two.

Sir Kanae flies through the air like a ragdoll and rolls when she hits the dust. There's a collective intake of breath, a sort of hushed storm in the air.

Madara slumps in his saddle.

She climbs slowly to her feet, and pulls her helm off. Her red hair tumbles in waves over her dusty armor. In the dying light, it looks like blood.

There is a shocked silence in the stands before anyone moves, before anyone even breathes. "My hand goes to Baron Uchiha of Warwick, seeing as he has bested me with a lance." She announces rather calmly to the silence before she turns and limps towards him. "My lord needs a doctor, Big Brother. Fetch one at once."

Prince Kyoya wordlessly slaps his reins against the neck of his chestnut and canters off towards the other side of the tiltyard.

She offers him a hand despite Yakumi's protests. "Are you alright, my lord?"

He cannot deny the concern in her eyes. He does not need pity but, when he touches his side his hand comes away wet with blood.

He had not known he was bleeding before. He'd seen her lance covered in blood, but he had not connected that to whose blood it was.

The stands are still silent.

* * *

It is only a graze, unlikely to be serious, though King Ashina stays by his bedside as the Royal Doctor dresses and bandages his wounds.

Prince Kyoya has not left the doorway, though none of the other princes are about. There is to be a feast, so it is about certain that they have gone off to change out of their tourney clothes.

Sir Kanae has gone to change out of her armor and to redo her hair before the feast tonight.

"I am sorry such a thing occurred, my son." King Ashina smiles wanely. "I hope you will forgive my daughter for the slight. She is young yet, and I have indulged her whims far more than a worthy father ought. Ah, I am sure that she is sorry to have hurt you. She does not dislike you. You must understand."

_He calls me son. _

_He is not a faithless man. _Perhaps if he were a blackguard, he would press for more concessions, more trade deals, more of these things that this kindly king is unwilling to part with, but Madara Uchiha of Warwick is no blackguard.

He may have been desperate. He may have pushed too far, but he has done nothing to _deserve _this feeling of guilt scorching his bones.

"Think nothing of it. Accidents happen in the tiltyard, and this one is hardly as serious as to take my life."

Yakumi looks as though he wants to say more, but Madara's glare is enough to cut the Marshal into silence.

Seeing as he's made his choices, there's no longer any place for the Marshal to say anything further.

King Ashina is afraid then, that so far away from Warwick, Madara will treat Sir Kanae ill. "Rest easy." It is hard for him to offer comfort. It has been long since he has had cause to or the presence of mind. It comes slowly to him now. Still, he finds that every word he speaks is the truth. "I will not treat Kanae ill. No harm will come to her in England. I swear," what does he have to prove his truth? "On the graves of my brothers, I will hold nothing against her, Father."

They are a close family, the Crown of Scotland, and he has intruded on these bonds not so easily broken.

King Ashina nods, partially to him, partially to himself. "I hope it may always remain so, my son." He rises to go. "The feast cannot be missing its king. Kyoya will show you the way down when you wish to rise."

And then he is alone in the room with the bastard prince.

"If you are lying, I will butcher you myself." Prince Kyoya's gaze is not even on him. Instead, it is focused on some point on the opposite wall. Cold blue eyes, clear as ice and just as brittle and hard stare unseeing into the air. "If I hear even one whisper of you treating my littlest sister ill, your blood will stain the flagstones and your life is forfeit, do you understand?"

Madara smiles. "You must dislike me a great deal."

"I asked you a question." Prince Kyoya still does not look at him. "I asked _do you understand._"

"I'm sure he does, Big Brother." A small hand smooths away the jumping vein in Prince Kyoya's temple. "Do not worry so."

Prince Kyoya catches her hand as it falls and holds it lightly in his own. There is a tenderness in his hard blue eyes that makes water of ice. "How can you ask me to not worry, Lovely Girl?" He brushes a strand of hair away from Sir Kanae's face. "You are my littlest sister, and by a fit of god's folly, we will have to send you so far away."

"I ask you to keep your faith in me." She leans up to whisper something in her brother's ear that Madara does not catch, but Prince Kyoya merely nods, his eyes closed and his lips pressed tight to each other.

"I see." Then he turns on his heel and leaves in a swirl of black hair and black cloak.

"Will you walk with me, my lord?" Princess Kanae offers him a hand. "There is much of Islay that you have not yet seen."

There is no longer need for a chaperone between them.

His wound is dressed.

It is not serious enough to keep him in bed.

"Where did you wish to go, my lady?" He has won her hand, so she is his lady now. She is Baroness Uchiha of Warwick now.

At least, she will be, as soon as the wedding occurs when they step foot back into Warwick.

"To look at Islay." She smiles, though it does not touch her eyes. "I will not see this city fall asleep again for many years yet, if I am a fortunate woman."

That is true.

He rises to walk with her.

And if his ribs still pain him, it is a little thing.

* * *

"You don't look like a man who has never fallen in love before." She stands on the battlements of the castle walls and looks out over the sea and the city below. The sound of the waves echoes over the stones. Below, the city is falling asleep slowly in the twilight. "Can you tell me about your love?"

"Are you asking if I have a less than respectable paramour?" The thought is halfway painful. If not by necessary respect for the law would he still be— "If you must know—"

She takes his hand and blinks those ghost green eyes at him, something terribly sad and moving in them. "I don't." A pause. A heartbeat. "I don't need to know if the thought hurts so much."

"Am I so weak to you?" The thought burns. That he has to rely on her pity… "He is married now if you must know."

And Madara himself is a godforsaken _idiot. What possessed me to— _

"Are you always like this?" She asks, while leaning on the railing, looking out at the sea. "Do you always tear yourself apart for things you have no control over?" She doesn't mention his verbal slip, doesn't shy away from him as though he has the plague or some other disease as he half expects her to.

Her eyes are far away, as if skimming over the waves to the horizon isn't far enough to go. Where does she want to go, this beloved daughter of a beloved king?

She doesn't mention it, doesn't shy away. His side aches.

Still, still, he can't keep control of his traitorous tongue. "The last pass…" He can see her in his mind's eye, the horses thundering down the field, the red spiral on a black shield, and at the last moment, the shift of her lance. It had glanced off of his shield with none of her usual strength. "You faltered."

"Perhaps I wanted someone to throw me for once." She shrugs and does not look at him. "Perhaps as much as I love it here, I want to go somewhere else and be someone else."

He watches her, watches the lace bunched at the hollow of her throat, the green satin of her bell sleeves sway in the wind, the melancholy air in her eyes. _For someone who says she wants to leave so easily, you do not act as though you want to go._

"Perhaps you're a terrible liar." He mutters. "Your brother told me that you love too easily and care too much." Maybe she'd turned her lance aside out of pity. She'd wounded him in the pass before. Maybe she just wanted it all to end so he wouldn't bleed out on the field.

Perhaps it was kindness and pity that turned her lance and lost her her freedom. Kindness and pity, what an awful combination. He half wishes she didn't do it, but only half.

He has his mother. He has his brother. He cannot leave them to the mercy of cousins, no matter how closely related by blood.

She laughs. It's a pretty, bell-like sound. "Big Brother told you about me, didn't he?" She sighs. "He does not like the idea that I am leaving." She is close to the Bastard Prince of Islay. It had evidently been Prince Kyoya who taught her how to ride, how to joust, how to fight. And her eldest brother loves her, loves her as the sea loves the sand. They had been close all these years, as the moon pulls the tide, so it pulls the eldest prince of Islay in his younger sister's orbit.

What else has he pulled apart when he entered the lists?

He comes to stand beside her, and he sets a hand over hers. Her hands are cold. They should not stand here for much longer. She is not dressed for the weather. "You faltered because of the trade talks, didn't you?" It is nicer to think this than his previous conjecture, despite how much he didn't want the talks to be a factor. It is better than kindness and pity, though casting him as the blackguard in this situation doesn't settle well around him either.

He didn't want her to consider it, but he won't complain about it either. A marriage would help both their lands.

There will be no more raids, no more burned villages, no more death. He won't complain about good fortune. _No. _He thinks, half sardonically. _I will just bleed until it hurts me. _

It is most of what he's good for.

Her lips tilt down, and she turns her face up to him, wryly amused. "Maybe I faltered because you are the most interesting suitor that I've ever met, and I was afraid that I'd never meet another one who is half so amusing." Her eyes fall to his bandaged side. It aches.

He snorts. "I'm sure I was interesting and definitively not insane."

"Lord Madara?" She brushes a strand of hair away from his face. "Why were you so motivated to continue the joust?" _I risked my life for that joust. _

"My father is dying." He tells her. "My younger brother is blind." Mentioning Izuna hurts still. _Why am I telling her this? _If she is to be his wife, then she deserves to know.

There ought to be no lies or half truths — buried secrets do not stay buried well — between them. She deserves to know, but he is not used to talking of such things. "If I were to die without heir, then he and my mother will lose Warwick to my younger cousins." Still all of this is not enough. "And maybe I didn't want to lose the most interesting person I've ever met." The ache in his side gets worse. His ribs burn, bruises blooming over his flesh. His left arm throbs.

He means every word he says.

What a strange conversation this is, that it's peeled back all his layers and left him raw and bleeding in the softness of the twilight. She compels truth from him even if she doesn't demand it.

They stand there for a moment in the dying light.

There's a softness to this scene he's sure. Perhaps if it were a painting he's discovered at random, he would think them a pair of lovers on the parapet of the castle, handsome lord holding the hand of his lady.

How ironic it is that they are far from that idyllic fantasy.

She takes a step closer to him, her fingers light against his jaw. "Do you expect to die?" _Soon that is. _

"Men die all the time." He mutters. The skin that she touches burns hot to the touch even in the evening chill. Something about her sets fire to the dying embers of him. "But I don't expect to die in the near future." _If I do die, it will be entirely unexpected. _He resists the urge to cackle madly. _My God, I've become so morbid. _

"You will not die." She says, a conviction to wear down mountains and drag castles into the sea. The wind picks up. She holds his face in her hands. "I will protect you, so you will not die."

Her faith is unassailable, so much so that he almost believes that it is the truth.

"Will you?" He does not like the idea of being weak. To be protected by someone else is to be weaker than the storm. Most men protect their wives, not the other way around.

"I'm not saying that you'll not survive alone." She stands on her toes, a hand against his cheek, the other on the back of his neck. "But it's nicer to walk together than to go alone."

Not alone. How long has it been since he was truly not alone? "You will not leave me?" Hashirama had said, had promised once… _We'll always be together, Mada. _

_I'm sorry, I l— _And so the years turn.

"Not while I draw breath." Her eyes do not lie. Her eyes do not lie, but he's so tired of promises.

"Everyone leaves even if they do not mean to." Morbidity and pessimism, thy name is Madara Uchiha. "It's something I've learned over the years." All that greets men at the end of a life is death. All men die, and so all men leave in the end.

"That's a sad way to look at life, isn't it?" She asks him. "You will not be happy now, because you will be sad later?"

He shrugs.

"But isn't everyone destined to be sad later?" She muses. "It isn't as if there is a single person in this world who will be happy forever. So by your logic, no one should ever be happy, because we all of us will be sad and grieve for something later. What a miserable world that would be."

She half smiles, a soft twist of her lips. What other depths does she hide, this princess of Islay?

"You are a very unconventional woman." He'd known this of course, knows it, but still. He doesn't necessarily find it upsetting, just unusual. This Princess of Scots is like no other woman that he's ever met.

"You won me in a joust." There's an edge of mockery in her smile. "I cannot possibly have charmed you with my exceedingly refined beauty and sweet words."

"No." He agrees. "I was won over the moment you told me that you'd stab me with a dirk should I be a scoundrel." How long had it been since he laughed in mirth instead of mockery? She had so easily made him laugh.

Her words make sense.

Why should he spend the years unhappy in anticipation of the dreadful things to come? Can he not be happy now and worry over the sadness of it all later?

Why can't he take his happiness where he finds it?

What weighs so heavy on his shoulders that he cannot be merry now?

He watches her. She's left her hair loose and free, a wild riot of red curls shifting in the late breeze, her face upturned toward the sky, the way the late light casts shadow over her neck, the open way she stands.

Her face is too sharp to be conventionally beautiful, but there is something striking about her all the same.

It's in the way she draws the eye. She is a painter's palette of colors and contrasts.

It's hard to look away from an open flame or a raging storm and perhaps she is both — both the flame and the storm.

She is not Hashirama, not tanned skin and wide smiles and candle lit kisses, but the heart can find more than one thing valuable.

They stand there for a while longer, as the dusk falls across the battlements and the bustle of Uzu Castle dims, in silence.

And then they turn as one and head back in, her hand on his arm.

* * *

They are the last to leave the dancefloor that night, though he allows each of her five brothers and her father to cut in when they chose to.

Perhaps they do it more often so that he sits at the same table as the Queen.

He will not protest it. His side aches more often than not. If he exerts himself, he shall infect the wound and likely die, which would be unpleasant.

It is one of those gaps again, as the Bastard Prince spins his little sister around the floor. There he must have said something, for she throws her head back, bright peals of laughter ringing in the candlelight.

"My princess is happy tonight." Chihaya of House Okui murmurs.

"May she always be so." Queen Naokano folds her hands together in her lap. "She was born for dancing and riding. May that never change."

Ah, they are attempting to guilt him again.

He can offer many things, but he will not be swayed from his course now. He will not give up on this venture just because they wish to guilt him into it.

"She is beautiful when she is happy." Is all he says. Let them know that he values her happiness, that he finds her lovely, that he is not what they believe Englishmen are.

"My lord values beauty?" Queen Naokano smiles, but it does not touch her eyes.

She has misunderstood, perhaps purposefully.

"I find happiness beautiful." Madara counters. There is a difference. He does not value beauty as much as happiness, or he would have married long ago and not to this woman.

"Oh, do not worry so, Lady Mother." Prince Aruta drops into a seat beside him. "I am sure that our little brother will be kind to our Little Storm." There is an edge to his smile that promises pain if he is not. All brothers are the same.

"I do not worry." The Queen counters gently. "I brood, and I fret. There is a difference, my son."

Prince Aruta laughs, a bright blooming thing. "Is that what our lord father says about your worry? Brooding and fretting, Lady Mother, you do not _brood _nor do you _fret. _You worry." The prince smiles, daring and cheeky. "There is a difference." He rises in the heady beat of the music and bows politely to Chihaya. "My Lady of Okui, will you mind honoring this rascal with a dance?"

The lady in question does not hide her smile behind her open fan. "Of course not, Your Highness, as long as you forgive me if I step on your feet."

Prince Aruta laughs again. "Never fear my lady, you'll have to fear me stepping on yours. What a merry pair we'll make in this crowd of refined dancers."

Chihaya of House Okui must be the daughter or sister of a high ranked lord here in South Scotland to have the love of the royal family and the ear of the queen.

She and Prince Aruta disappear onto the floor.

"Your Majesty," Madara bows. "Might I be bold enough to ask for a dance?"

No one has asked the Queen to dance tonight, or the last night there had been a feast.

He does not know the why of it, for it cannot be that King Ashina is a jealous man. It is not that the Queen lacks in admirers or those who respect her or in beauty or grace. It is not as though she has a weak disposition that prevents her, for he had seen her out riding with her ladies that morning.

Queen Naokano smiles, though behind her smile there is pain. "I do not dance, My Lord of Uchiha. I have not for twenty-eight years."

There is some significance to this, though he is at a loss as to explain why. Twenty-eight years is unusually specific. "My apologies then." Every step he takes here betrays him as an outsider. "I did not know that it is a habit of yours, Your Majesty."

For a brief moment, he is struck by the thought that Kanae will not like Warwick, will feel there as he feels here, always on the outside looking in. _I will not allow it. _He tells himself. _If they try to make her an outsider, I will force them to change._

_Will you? _His doubts argue. _You cannot even govern your own destiny in Warwick. _

_That is how you ended up here. You cannot even look any family member of yours in the eye. That is something you are not content to live with, but you endure it anyway. _

_Where will you find the power to make someone else so clearly different comfortable in a castle that is no home to you or anyone else who lives in it? _

"You must call me Lady Mother, as my children do, My Lord Uchiha." Queen Naokano turns back to watch the dancers. "As you are also my son now."

"Then you must call me Madara, as my own lady mother calls me." He follows her eyes. They rest on her husband's bastard son, on the dark hair of South Scotland's eldest prince, so unlike the rest of the royal family. _What sort of woman held King Ashina's heart before his Queen? _

For Queen Naokano is King Ashina's mirror image, grace to his grace, kindness to his kindness, virtue to his virtue. How had there been another woman in this world whose child King Ashina would call his own when his own Queen is above reproach?

Then, Prince Kyoya is quite a few years older than the rest of his siblings. Perhaps King Ashina had not met the Queen yet.

The Queen smiles, and in the candlelight, her dark eyes dance with gold. "I would like that, Madara."

"My Lord?" A small hand catches his own. "Will you come back to the dance floor?" When he turns, he finds Kanae smiling. "I promise, it is not a reel."

She has such laughing eyes, such a dazzling shade of pale green. He is at a loss as to who she inherited her eyes from — these eyes like new leaves come from neither her father nor her mother — but not the care to question it.

She dips into a curtsy for the Queen who nods. "Lady Mother."

"I do not object to dancing again." He has not danced so much in years, but it is like she said. She is better on the dancefloor than in a tiltyard. There is so much happiness to her that her feet are light on the wood. She is hard to look away from when she is happy.

The players on the edges of the room begin the opening strains of the next song, and Kanae pulls him to a free spot on the floor.

"Can you tell me about your family?" She asks, voice soft but audible over the music.

"What is there to say?" _My father is dying, but listens to the ramblings of a mad fortune teller. My mother has been weary these past few years listening to such things. My brother was blinded during his studies in the observatory. There are three gravestones down in the graveyard of the younger brothers I had that are no more in this world. _

That is all his family is, a collection of broken pieces that might have at one time, reflected hers.

"If I might know their names and how I am to address them." The corner of her lips quirks down. "For I do not think that they expect me."

Oh.

Of course that is what she was asking about.

Methods of address.

They have different ones here than they do in England.

"My father," He spins her out and then pulls her back. "His Grace, Duke Tajima Uchiha of Warwick." _Ruined and dying in his bed instead of on his feet. _He does not add. "My mother, Her Grace, Duchess Harumi Uchiha of Warwick" _A woman who has had to be strong for so long that she's forgotten what it means to be soft. _ "And my brother, Lord Izuna Uchiha of Warwick." _Someone who will never see the stars again, despite how much he loved them._

"I see." She murmurs, as she glances down for a moment. "So your father is 'His Grace,' your mother is 'Her Grace' and your brother is 'Lord Izuna.'"

When she puts it that way, it all sounds so cold.

She calls her father, 'lord father,' her mother 'lady mother,' and her various brothers either by their names, or in the case of Prince Kyoya, 'Big Brother.' No matter how he attempts to justify it, his own family is far colder than hers, every part so distant from all the others.

"My Lord—"

"Madara." The music has stopped now, and they stand on the edge of the floor, though he still holds her right hand in his left, his other hand on her waist. Her gloves do not disguise the callouses on her hands, just as his gloves do not hide the roughness of his hawking scars. Her hands mirror his own, despite being so much smaller. They have much in common despite the differences from whence they come. "You ought to call me Madara, my lady."

He has plenty of people to call him Lord Uchiha left and right.

There are so few in this world who would ever use his given name. It would be a waste if they spent the rest of their lives behind formal titles.

She giggles. "But you called me my lady." She leans up on her toes so that she may whisper in his ear. "If I am to call you Madara, perhaps you should call me Little Kanae as my brothers do."

He turns his head. "What—" Whatever words he wants to say die on his lips.

Have her eyes always been so big?

The moment hangs in the air infinitely long before it breaks.

"What did you want to ask?"

He does not let go of her hand. "I will not be your brother." He leans down. "What do you want your husband to call you?"

There is a blush on her cheeks when he pulls away, faint, very faint, but they are still standing close together, and he cannot help but notice.

She recovers herself admirably, that playful, airy smile once more on her lips. "I have always thought my name is a pretty one. If you wish to call me something else, you will have to decide on it, my lord of Uchiha."

"Then at the moment I will call you as such." He decides. She has recovered admirably, but she is young. He has been at court for many years now. He has plenty of tittering women who wished to speak to him. A blush is a blush. "My Lady Kanae."

Still, this particular blush, however slight fans the heat in his blood.

* * *

**A.N. **So I recently finished Chapter 6 of this fic, so let's have an update for War of the Roses Verse!

Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed, favorited and followed. You guys are all great.

~Tavina


	5. As Pure as Driven Snow

**Disclaimer: I do not own Naruto.**

* * *

"You carry the heavens

In your eyes

Like one of those old

Greek tragedies.

And I'd call you Atlas,

But he wasn't given

A choice to hold the stars

You were."

— Unknown

* * *

They leave Islay at first light. She brings a few men with her, though not as many as one expects of a princess, and riding in the train behind her, Lady Chihaya of House Okui.

In the process, he learns that the Pirate Captain Asuran is Lady Chihaya's cousin, and that Lady Chihaya herself is the only daughter of the lord of Castle Jusan.

"Will your father not miss you?" He hears Yakumi ask behind him.

The Marshal's softened enough for the two women in the train, and every mile they ride away from Islay, the less skittish Yakumi is.

Madara is quietly relieved that it is so.

It would be unfortunate if the Marshal took offense to the future Baroness, and Madara would hate to have to do something about that.

It would end in the Marshal getting sent away, as biased or as unfortunate as that case may be. He has little recourse in that matter.

If Kanae feels at all unhappy about leaving her home behind, she does not show it.

"I will return to Islay in time." Lady Chihaya remarks. "And I have long lived at Uzu Castle with Their Majesties. Going to Warwick merely means that my letters will arrive a bit slower to my younger brothers at Castle Jusan."

She did not mention her father much at all really. It is her younger brothers who will miss her then, not Lord Okui. And it is her brothers who she will miss, not her father.

Madara himself has no sisters or female cousins with which to compare this relatively tepid relationship.

Still, it seems rather stale and barren nonetheless, much like the relations he had seen between Lords and their daughters in London.

Daughters are bargaining chips, married off to the highest bidder to cement alliances and further the well being of their male relatives.

Perhaps that is what had stunned him so about King Ashina's regard for his daughter.

Sir Kanae had been indulged in her whims and fancies, but not spoiled, much beloved and most certainly not sold off into a marriage without her own choice.

However unconventional the match between them might be, it was not one that King Ashina had merely announced to Sir Kanae one day without giving her space to breathe.

In this case, it had almost seemed like it was the other way around, and what a strange breath of fresh air that is.

"Warwick will be in view soon." He says. "As soon as we ferry the river, we will be in sight of the battlements."

Kanae urges her horse forward. "Will Her Grace mind?" She asks. "After all, we have not written ahead that you will require a wedding ceremony relatively quickly."

He sighs. "She hasn't grounds to complain." A messenger would not have arrived much earlier than this riding party. "And she has had enough notice that a wedding would take place when I return. It shall simply be closer now."

And since he has not been in Islay for as long as he has planned, his mother is likely still shortening her list of prospective daughters-in-law while preparing for a wedding.

It will be no trouble to simply skip the list and move straight to the wedding.

They ferry the River Nakano by midday, and another half hour's ride brings the walls of Warwick into their sightline.

"It is beautiful here." Sir Kanae tells him with frank eyes. "And warmer." A gentle quip, but one made with soft barbs all the same.

He considers Warwick as an outsider might.

The smooth hewn black sandstone rises into four towers against the pale blue sky. Perhaps it can be called beautiful.

He who has grown up here cannot truly call it so. There is too much memory, too much blood in these stones for him to see only its beauty instead of the rot underneath.

Perhaps in time she will come to hate it here.

He does not want that to be so and half wishes rather foolishly that she will not. It's not as if the rot wouldn't be immediately evident as soon as she meets his lord father.

"It rains less here than it does in London." He has not yet decided if and when he wants to return to London, and if she will go with him should he do so. "And it stinks less."

She covers a laugh with her hand, though it does nothing to stop the amusement in her eyes. "I am aware."

"You have been to London?" He asks, surprised. He was not aware that the Crown of South Scotland has ever been to London.

She shrugs, airy and careless. "It was years ago, when the English King wished to treat with my lord father. I spent some months there to my child self's great dismay." She turns to him, a smile on her lips. "It was as you said, Lord Madara: rather wet and smelly."

"I assume this means you have no desire to return there." There is still much to do in Warwick proper — better roads, better taxes, better organization — his mother cannot look after everything and his father as well.

And His Grace has long been unable to govern most affairs or listen to the grievances of the peasants who work the land of Warwick proper.

If he lingers in Warwick longer than he first planned? Well, then he is playing the part of a dutiful son. There's nothing left for him in London at the moment without Hashirama anyway, nothing he had left undone besides tying the last threads of their relationship in their proper places. With Hashirama's marriage and his own, there will be no need to further end anything.

"I do not find London the most attractive of cities, no." She smiles. "As I am a Scot, I found the monasteries in Edinburgh much more fun." She is well traveled.

He, personally, has not been to Edinburgh and hardly sees a reason for going there.

"Your twin brothers studied there." Prince Aruta had offered to write to Izuna. He will have to ask his younger brother if he wished to write to a Scottish Prince who loves the stars in much the same way Izuna does.

"They still do." She blinks, long and slow. "You simply came at a time when they were at home. They will return there soon."

"Will they join the clergy there?" As he is aware, the Twin Princes are the closest to Kanae in age. The fourth and fifth sons of a king do not often have many other paths open to them. Joining the church is an advantageous path open to the younger sons of noblemen, though less common for princes.

Kanae laughs freely at this question, and it takes long for her to catch her breath.

At one time, he would be annoyed to be laughed at, yet he can find no annoyance or irritation today. He finds happiness beautiful, and so little of his life has been happy these past few years. It is like a breath of fresh air, how easily she laughs.

He isn't even sure if she is laughing at him or another stray thought that has crossed her mind, so he merely waits patiently for her to speak again.

"I do not much think God would appreciate that." She is still amused as she urges her blood bay forward. "They are scoundrels and gamblers to boot. It would strain even the patience of God were they to take on the mantle of the priestly order, I think. Heaven knows that the Abbot of St. Giles already has thin patience for them."

"I found them pleasant." He had found Prince Aruta pleasant and frank and his brother Prince Ashiro quite funny.

"That is because you have not yet sat down at a card table with them." Kanae's smile is fond. "You would change your tone if you have."

"I find that hard to believe." Surely, they cannot be as bad as she makes them seem. She loves them well, if her fondness is any indication.

"Most have."

He would ask her to give examples, but there is Taiko, the courier boy, opening the gates to Warwick, and their horses' hooves ring over the cobbled stone of the courtyard instead of the road.

Her Grace is waiting for them.

There's no longer time for games or light conversation.

He sweeps off of his horse first and offers Kanae a gloved hand for her own dismount. It is not that he doubts her, but it is only polite, especially given the situation.

She is wearing riding leathers atop a stallion at least sixteen and a half hands tall, not exactly a lady riding in a carriage.

"Mother," He murmurs. "Might I introduce my future bride, Her Highness, Princess Kanae of Islay?"

Well, never let it be said that Her Grace, Duchess Harumi is ever without words.

"I hope your journey was well, Your Highness." By the look in his mother's eyes, there is much to speak of between them.

"Oh," Kanae blinks. "Quite well, Your Grace." She sweeps forward, soft shoes a mere whisper on the cobblestones. "But you must call me Kanae as my mother does."

His mother stiffens. "I am not your mother, Your Highness."

Something in his stomach congeals like old blood.

Kanae pauses for a moment and blinks once, a shutter falling over pale green eyes. "Of course not, Your Grace." Still she smiles. "I merely said call me Kanae _like _my mother does." No, Her Grace is a far cry from Queen Naokano. He'd known it in Scotland, but he feels it more heavily now.

Yes. She will learn to hate it here, and him as well, he is certain of it.

More certain of it than anything else he's been certain of in his life, and her hatred will come as certainly as death will.

Still, in the next moment, she spins around. "It won't be too difficult to house our horses will it?" There are not that many more horses than what they left with that they cannot be housed in Warwick's stables.

"Warwick has the extra space." Yakumi tells her with assured confidence. "Your destrier is a beauty, Your Highness. It would be a travesty to lend bad quarters to such a fine horse."

"I'll trouble you then." Kanae smiles.

Her blood bay might be impressive, but further still, it is she who is impressive. It isn't easy to turn his mother's attention away, but she'd done it, if not perfectly, still well.

The Marshal leads away the horses, and Hikaku, the steward leads away the men.

Now it is only the three of them, Kanae, Her Grace, and himself in the courtyard.

He offers his arm to Kanae. "Perhaps we ought to head in. The sun is strong."

And somehow, that averts a crisis.

* * *

He'd spoken too soon. The crisis is not averted, because somehow, in between entering Warwick and walking to the front steps, his lord father has heard of the situation. Exactly how this occurred, he hasn't the faintest idea, but he still has no desire to speak to his father about this issue.

Which leads to Taiko hurrying here and there in attempts to summon him to his father's room. He is about to dismiss the him with the message that travel has made him tired, but Kanae turns to the boy and without knowing what sort of fray she'll be launching into, says, "If His Grace would like to see us, it is only right to go."

She doesn't know how how terrible this meeting will be.

His every breath flares with a dull ache over his ribs. Four days of riding has done nothing for the graze over his side, and he'll have to spend more time standing and listening to his lord father rage rather than the quiet rest he'd looked forward to.

_She didn't intend for it to be this way,._ hHe reminds himself. She doesn't know, so how could he blame her for the coming storm?

"His Grace has not been well for a long time." He tries, at least, to discourage the meeting. "I'm afraid it could be rather shocking."

"All the more reason to go then." She sets a hand in the crook of his arm, on his uninjured side, gentle support that gives him something more than his cane to lean on should he wish to.

He has no desire to explain this injury to anyone in his family. As of yet they do know. If his luck is good, they will never know.

"If His Grace doesn't feel well, we ought to ensure his peace of mind at least."

He's quite at a loss to explain that there is no ensuring Duke Tajima's peace of mind, that he is not _close _with his lord father, has not been for some time, and likely never will be again, but good grief.

That would take much more discussion than he is comfortable with.

They continue down the stone hall to their doom — she, unwittingly with light feet, he, knowing all too well.

"So you're back, boy." Duke Tajima croaks from the bed.

The room does not smell any better than it did the last time he visited. The scent of rot is thick.

"I have returned from treating with the Scots, yes."

"You're still dressed hideously." Ah, yes. A jab at his wardrobe. That is to be expected.

This time the word is hideous instead of beastly. No surprise really.

Kanae's hand tightens on his arm, though her expression doesn't change.

His side aches, tender to the slightest touch. Less than half a minute here and he already wishes to be gone.

What an unfilial son he is. He would regret it if his father didn't make this so hard. It is so very hard to make this man happy that it's almost a failing task to try.

Duke Tajima coughs into a handkerchief during the time he ought to have been giving a response. "I hear you brought a princess back with you."

This ignores the simple truth that the princess is right beside him. Unless his lord father's gone blind, it would be a little hard to miss her red hair. Or indeed, that there is a whole person just a few inches to his left.

So he's doing this purposefully then.

Well, two can play the game of ignorance. "Might I introduce my future bride?" He sweeps his arm forward, and Sir Kanae bobs the appropriate curtsey despite her riding leathers. "Your Grace, Her Highness, Princess Kanae of Islay. Your Highness, His Grace Duke Tajima Uchiha of Warwick."

"Pleased to meet you, Your Grace." She's smiling, no hint of any disappointment in her eyes.

In Islay, she'd acted so naturally. This smiling mask ill suits her.

Maybe it's the air here. It corrupts and ruins everything.

What that means for the future, well, he does not know. He cannot imagine. He doesn't want to.

"You don't look much like a princess." Ah, his lord father is in a worse mood than he thought.

He opens his mouth to respond, but Kanae merely laughs, letting go of his arm to flit over to the chair by his father's bedside. "What does Your Grace think princesses are supposed to look like?"

His father casts her a jaundiced eye, as if uncertain of how to proceed when she will not suddenly burst into tears at the first or second insult he pays her. "Blonde." His Grace snorts. "Dressed appropriately. Good at embroidery. A sight more polite than you." Oh, so the lack of tears at the first few jabs just leads to more insults.

Perhaps His Grace just wants her to cry.

Madara himself feels slightly bereft of the company. The place she'd held his arm is still warm.

The dull throb in his side is getting worse. Much longer and he will have trouble standing up straight.

She might not show that such words hurt her, but they must. She'd come from a place where everyone had loved her so. Here no one loves her, not even him. Not even him though he might grow to love her.

He does not love her yet.

She tilts her head to one side, seemingly unbothered by the way this room reeks of death and sickness. "Well, I cannot help having red hair any more than I can help preferring horses to carriages and speaking exactly how I would like to."

"I am a duke of England." His father coughs into a handkerchief. Whatever else he'd wanted to say is lost in the coughing fit.

"My lord father always said that anyone who had to insist upon a title had no real title at all." The jibe is made gently, but Madara tenses, his hand tightening about the grip of his cane.

There's no telling how His Grace will react.

He half expects it will end badly. If it comes down to it, his lord father is too weak now to do much of anything, but should he try, Madara would be hard pressed to stop him. His side still aches and he is weak from riding and standing here like nothing's wrong.

Strangely, Duke Tajima wheezes.

It takes Madara a long time to realize that his father is laughing. It's been so long since he's heard the old man laugh that he doesn't even remember it's an option.

"What a blessing you are." He waves a hand in their direction. "Maybe you'll survive my son after all."

They are dismissed.

A miracle really.

Even more of a miracle, he doesn't show signs of crashing to the stone at their feet on their way back to his rooms.

This is no place to show weakness.

* * *

He half collapses in an ungainly heap into the nearest chair as soon as the door clicks shut behind them.

"Lord Madara?" She's beside him in an instant, lips tight with concern. "I am sorry, I should have—"

He waves her concern away. It is unlikely his wound is bleeding again, and it should not be infected with how much care they'd taken with it during the journey. It had been stitched and dressed, and showed no signs of additional redness, fever, or pus.

It had not yet scabbed over well because of the riding and the journey, but it should not be so worrying. It has only been a long time since he was last injured. He isn't used to this anymore, so long he's spent living a cushy life in London.

It has been a long day, and he is tired.

"You didn't happen to know that His Grace is…" Oh, he has so few words to truly explain how he feels about this whole affair. He shrugs. There are no words really. The Warwick of his youth was not like this, but it has been a long time. It has been a long time, and everything has faded since. "I didn't explain well enough. You didn't know. That's not your fault."

If anything, his current predicament is his fault and his fault alone.

A string of bad choices has led him here, weak and trembling in this chair with the ever persistent, ever nagging thought that he had taken a wrong turn somewhere in his life, and now everything is a hopeless tangle he would never be able to straighten.

"That is no reason to have disregarded how you _felt _about the matter." Her hands settle lightly on his shoulders. "Perhaps I shall like London better after all," she remarks without any connection whatsoever.

"I sincerely doubt it." Ah, he is more tired than he thought. "They will spread rumors about you should you stay here."

"Do you care much about rumors?" she asks. One of her fingers traces the tired clench of his jaw. "I know you do not want others to know you are injured but these sorts of things should not be left alone."

"Do you want them to call you a whore?" He raises tired eyes to her face. "I cannot change that if they choose to whisper." _You will have to live here. _He thinks. _The rest of your life, you will have to live with me. _

_Please, now is not the time for your concern._

She watches him for another long pause, her hand warm against his jaw. "You have very strange fears." She peels the black cloak from his shoulders, carefully unfastens the tiny buttons which clasp it at his throat, and lets it fall against the back of his chair. "Why should I care what they think of me when I know that you will not find me a whore?"

The corner of his mouth tilts up sardonically. "My opinion is not the one that matters most here." It's best that she knows this. It's best that he tells her. _My opinion means nothing here. _

_My thoughts and feelings don't matter here. They rarely ever do._

Her fingers have found the top button of his shirt. They pause there for a light moment as if she's asking a question.

He closes his eyes. "If you insist."

"I do not insist." Her hands are warm there, against the base hollow of his throat. "This is a question, my lord, not a demand."

He is so tired, and her hands are warm. "As you would like." He agrees at last. "I have no secrets to keep from you."

What other things must he hide from her? She knows of Hashirama already. There's nothing to hide. Not the least, he will share a bed with her some night soon into the future. What he looks like minus one layer of cloth is hardly something to hide, not from her.

The last person to see him so intimately had been Hashirama, but now in his life there will only ever be Kanae Uzumaki, Princess of Scots.

He cannot even look her in the eye in this moment.

She is careful when she reaches the lower buttons to not graze his left side.

God, he is so tired.

"It _was _wrong of me." Her words are like the tide washing over him, soft like a lover's caress. They are not lovers, not yet.

Perhaps they never will be, but he wants not a cold life.

He had insisted so on transplanting her from her happy life. He owes this young woman before him at least the effort it takes to try.

"You are _very _fatigued if you'd let me do this with so little protest."

He cracks his eyes open, half lidded and threatening to fall closed once more.

The edges of this room are faded in the evening light. He is half sure he also looks faded, but she burns so, like the storm.

He catches her hand when it falls. _So small. _He is unused to holding hands this small. "Warwick does not often please me." He smiles at her though he does not much mean it. "That is also hardly your fault."

"What about this place makes you so tired?" She undoes the last button of his shirt with a single hand and does not let go. She lingers so.

Any longer and he fears that she will linger in his mind's eye forever, so striking, so bold, and yet at the same time, she looks so frail.

"There is much that makes me unhappy here."

She huffs a laugh. "That is not much of an answer."

"Give me time." Her palms are calloused from holding a lance, her fingers rougher than even his. "I will tell you of all of them."

"Mmm." He cannot name the emotion in her eyes for it is not pity, amusement, or any great sadness. "I think I would like that, my lord."

"I apologize for His Grace." He shrugs helplessly, though that too irritates his side. "He has not had to speak to anyone of particular note for many years."

Her hand tightens around his. "He insulted you so casually." She looks more upset by this than… "I can understand that he finds me strange, but he is your lord father."

"Not all lord fathers are like yours." Ah, so it is that. By all standards, Duke Tajima Uchiha is not a horrible father. He remembers happier times, back in a span of golden years when he was a child and his father had taught him hawking, fencing, and archery. They had ridden the fields of the dukedom together once.

It has been a long time since it was so.

The year he'd lost his first brother, his father started to go mad. The fault lines had started appearing then, he'd just been too young to see it.

So no, Duke Tajima is no horrid father.

Ashina Uzumaki has simply done much better, it would seem.

She looks so distraught, so hurt. _How long has it been since someone grieved for me? _A long time he's certain.

A long long time.

He raises a hand to her face, thumb brushing away the tears that threaten to overwhelm her. "The first day in Warwick and I have already made you cry. My lady…I am not dead yet. There is no need to grieve."

She shakes her head. "I can't help it." A breath later, she lays her head in his lap, long hair spilling like silken threads. "How could he speak to you so? You are his son, blood of his blood, flesh of his flesh."

"He is old...and bitter. You needn't visit him when you don't have to." _And one day the two of us will be old and bitter…you will understand then. _"Feel free to ignore his summons. He is on his deathbed." _It will not be long. It will not be long, and you will not have to live with him long._

_No, the one you must live with is me._

"Does your brother also dislike you?" She seems almost afraid of the answer, of the seeming inevitability that he will say yes.

"No." Izuna loves him dearly. Izuna always will. "We can see him in the morning. He will not expect us tonight."

She lets go of a long breath. "That is good."

Her hair is soft when he lays his hand against the back of her head. "Still, there is something I ought to tell you about him." The first thing he'll tell her about why Warwick ill pleases him, why every step crushes his mood to his boots. "My younger brother...he is blind."

He can still remember Izuna's sightless eyes, the burn scars that had seemingly ripped half his face away, can still smell the charred flesh...his mind has wandered again without his consent. And often when his mind wanders, it sinks to heavy thoughts.

He had visited Izuna's sickroom in the aftermath. He was not there when it happened, but if his carriage had not been held up on the cramped, crowded streets, he would have.

If he had not cared so much for a status symbol, maybe—

"The scars are visible." Is what he settles on. "I don't think he would like if you mentioned them." Izuna did not stay in London because the air of judgement was too strong. Here at least, among those who'd known him since childhood, he was still respected as the son of a Duke, politely called 'Lord Izuna' instead of some other names Madara heard long ago in London.

She hums softly, "Of course."

When she leaves later that evening, her shadow stretches long behind her.

That night the only color in his dreams is red.

* * *

The next morning when he wakes, his side has scabbed over. He runs light fingers over the roughened skin, turning a single thought over and over in his mind.

There is no escape in riding or hawking for him now. There are only the matters to be sorted through on his desk and the meetings his father would certainly summon him to. If he wants the wound to heal, he is bound to the confines of the castle.

He is well and truly trapped now.

He pushes himself up with an elbow, swings his legs over the edge of his bed, and heaves a long sigh. If he cannot go hawking for the foreseeable future until this wound has fully healed, then he might has well go and bid goodbye to Garuda.

He swings his cloak over his shoulders and considers calling for the steward to learn what meetings he has today but decides against it.

It is still early for breakfast. He has time.

The Aviary is in the southwest corner of the courtyard, a short walk from the door of his tower suite. There's someone who lives in the other bedroom of his suite now. Only one door away, her rooms occupy the other half of the tower.

He had heard nothing when he rose, and originally, he had thought perhaps she was still asleep. He knows it is not so when he steps outside into the morning light.

The tiltyard has not been used in a long time, but there's the Marshal setting up new targets at one end, his lady atop her blood bay a lance in hand at the other.

The practice targets are circles of twisted willow branches hung from a line, spinning briskly in the stiff morning breeze.

The standard practice is to use three oak circles so that they don't flap in the wind as frenetically. Willow is much harder to hit, much less string onto a lance. Such a task is not for beginners, but to his eye, she seems assured enough.

He watches as she thunders across the yard, five willow rings clattering together over her hand where she raises the lance above her head, a golden laugh spilling from her lips.

Unconsciously, he smiles.

"You look well this morning, Lord Uchiha." Lady Chihaya stands two steps to his left, her eyes on the laughing woman still speaking to the Marshal.

Only then does he realize that he's smiling. Quickly, he stops. Truly, she did not need to lose to him. He doesn't know if he'd be able to manage the feat she's just accomplished as easily as drawing breath.

"Nothing has conspired to make me unhappy yet." A corner of his mouth turns down. "I'm sure it won't take long." Belatedly, he wonders who had arranged for Lady Chihaya's living arrangements.

Likely, it was Hikaku. The steward take charge of such things.

This conversation makes him uncomfortable, for even though she's not looking at him, he feels the weight of her attention anyway.

He takes a step forward. The Aviary is just on the other side of the yard. He can make it that far...surely.

As it turns out, he does not make it that far.

"Milord." Yakumi seems to be trying to get his attention.

"Yes?" He pauses on his way across the courtyard. How had the Marshal seen him from all the way across the tiltyard? Ah, there must be something he must take care of.

The Marshal has unerring eyes whenever he's searching for someone else to deal with problems. Otherwise, Yakumi can be quite blind.

Madara's long accepted this, but that doesn't mean he has to like it.

"Her Grace wanted to speak to you." Of course.

Of course. He wasn't going to avoid this forever. "I'll be over directly."

He continues in the direction of the Aviary. Garuda should be in his nest in the mews. He'd set out to say goodbye to his favorite hawking bird, he might as well have a few moments of peace before seeing his mother.

Yellow sunlight falls through the grimy glass panes and casts everything in warm tones. It is warm inside here, with a certain musty hay-like smell, filled with the chirps and squawks of many birds in their cages.

Garuda is...huffy when he does make his way to the mews. He plucks a leather hawking glove from the hook protruding from the stone wall. "Garuda, really." He murmurs. "Don't be so childish."

An indignant squawk.

He pulls the glove onto his right hand. The leather stops midway up his forearm. He has a few hawking scars from sharp talons, or a pointed beak, a few nicks and one gouge. Old scars. They've already healed, and he doesn't blame the birds for their nature.

"I couldn't visit you because I was away." He offers the bird his wrist. "I will be home often now, you'll see me so frequently you'll get sick of me."

Garuda climbs on, grip strong.

Still though, his favorite hunting falcon seems to be sulking.

He scratches the bird under the beak. "Though we may not be hunting any time soon." He sighs. "I took a scratch in a joust and it will be a while before I ride again."

This does not make Garuda any happier.

Behind him, someone laughs. "You talk to your birds, my lord?"

Ah, he's been caught then. "You speak to your horse, my lady." She sings to her blood bay as well. He'd found it amusing, but he supposes his tendency to speak as though Garuda understands him — the very act of giving his favorite falcon a name — marks him as equally sentimental.

He turns and presents Kanae to Garuda. "What do you think of my lady?" He asks. He's already been unmasked as hopelessly sentimental. He might as well continue.

Garuda preens.

Ah. "He finds you favorable then." Madara returns the falcon to his cage. "What a relief."

They leave the Aviary together.

"Would you decline marrying me if your hunting falcon did not approve?" She sounds amused...it is not a serious question then.

"Do I take orders from a bird?" He returns her question with one of his own. Even if Garuda had turned up his beak at such a thing, it does not mean that man would have bowed to the whims of beast.

"Yet you asked so seriously…" She is still teasing.

"It was only polite to ask." His mood is still tolerably good. He is resigned not to see it last.

* * *

He was right. It does not last. No sooner than his foot had crossed the doorway to his mother's suite does Her Grace open her mouth. "Madara, what were you thinking?"

He'd forgone this conversation, forgone the irritation that will come of this, but he can avoid it no longer. "I was thinking, as you said, I need to get married."

"To a Scottish girl?" The prejudice rings clear.

Perhaps if Sir Kanae was more like a typical lady, someone easily malleable and willing to bend to Her Grace's wishes, the country of her origins could be ignored. Not forgotten no, but ignored in favor of "better" things.

He has no wish to bother with such things. Perhaps this is his rebellion.

He will not refuse to _be _married, but it will be on his own terms. Not His Grace's. Not Her Grace's. Not the Crown's. No one's but his own.

His own.

"Is there something wrong with that?" His mother doesn't like to admit her own prejudices. When confronted with them, she pretends they don't exist. "I wasn't aware that Warwick was going to do better than a princess." The Crown of England has no eligible princesses in this generation. Thus, the only way Warwick would ever be related to royalty would be if the bride was foreign.

He leans in close to whisper. There's no need for this to get out, no need for anyone to hear. "Unless, Mother, you would wish for me to give my life to God. Then there'd be no need for any bride." He has no intention of joining a godly order and leaving this world behind to shave his long hair and become a monk, but his mother doesn't know that.

Her Grace pales.

Only slightly, but he notes it anyway. So the nonsensical threat is effective despite being nonsensical. His mother is willing to do anything to keep him in Warwick's hold.

He'll keep that in mind. It probably won't be of any use, but he isn't going to give up the advantage. He has so few of those.

"I think it might be best for you to start planning the wedding, Mother." _You won't like me very much if you do not. _

He turns on his heel and leaves the room.

Halfway down the hall, he realizes what he's done. _I wonder if she'll interpret this as madness. _They'll call Sir Kanae a temptress soon enough. They'll see the sway she holds over him, but not the reason.

The rumors will fly fast enough. He would warn her about this, but he doesn't think she'd heed the warning. She'd dismissed the idea of rumors the last time he mentioned it easily enough. Had asked if he cared, as if his thoughts on the matter were the only ones that mattered. She'd been so nonchalant, so unfazed that it nearly convinced him as well.

What a strange thought. What a strange, strange thought

He half likes it, but it's best not to get too attached.

She will see that it isn't so soon, and then it will vanish like dew in the morning light.

If he is not attached, he won't feel so terrible when she inevitably leaves.

There are heavier mountains to carry in the future. There's still much more to do.

He has to go see Izuna. His little brother will sulk and mope and refuse to speak to him if he drags this out for much longer.

He does hope that Izuna likes his lady. He doesn't see why not, but as long as it doesn't happen, the doubt is there.

The doubt is there and it's best erased as soon as possible.

* * *

He finds Kanae in her room with Lady Chihaya, though what they were talking about he hasn't the faintest idea because of the silence that settles when he pushes open the door is heavy.

"My lady." He has to fill the silence somehow, because it lingers oppressively, and he is horrible at keeping track of his own tongue at times. "I believe we were supposed to see my brother today."

Hikaku told him that Izuna is in his rooms, and has been there since breaking his fast early this morning.

"Oh." She rises, shaking out her skirts. "Yes, I do believe we agreed to meet Lord Izuna today."

He offers her his arm.

She meets his eyes with a smile.

And together, they make their way to Izuna's suite.

"Is your brother expecting us?" She's changed out of her riding leathers into a deep green dress, white gloves for her hands, her hair styled so that it is off of her neck.

"Does anyone expect you?" He has seen her hair free. He has seen it done for feasting and dancing, but he still doesn't expect this look of hers.

Dressed this way, she is almost a prim and proper looking lady.

He only says almost because of the calluses on her hands that one can feel through the satin gloves, the subtle shift in her stance when she walks, the slight but noticeable way her shoulders are thrown back the way that women who were taught to be ornamental are not.

The trappings of propriety look good on her, but they cannot dim the brightness of her smile and they certainly have no power to snuff the fire in her eyes.

Izuna's sitting next to a narrow window in the first room. He doesn't know why his brother prefers the window.

Izuna can see nothing, but two times now, he's come upon his little brother next to the window and seemingly staring out of it.

"I was wondering when you'd arrive." He's toying with a chess piece, a black knight.

There's a small table before him with a half finished game. He's had the time to set it up.

Someone has told Izuna about Kanae then. But which way his little brother is leaning at the moment he knows not.

"Izuna?" He asks. "There's someone I want you to meet." Before the accident, before he sent Izuna home, he'd always known his little brother would stand beside him no matter what.

They are close siblings for Izuna has always believed in him, but the yawning chasm of two years looms large. Perhaps Izuna leans in Her Grace's direction now.

"Sir Kanae, Princess of Scots?" A corner of Izuna's mouth tilts up. He turns his head in their direction. "And how does my new sister find Warwick Castle?"

So Izuna stands at his side, unyielding, unwavering, resolute.

He does not deserve such a brother, but he has Izuna and loves him as dearly as he is able. It is not enough, but it is all he can do.

Kanae beams. "It's beautiful here."

Izuna almost laughs. "You skipped so cleanly around the sorry state of us." He leans forward as if he's telling a secret. "I won't mind if you say it, you know. It's only true."

"What's sorry about it?" Kanae sits down in the other chair opposite Izuna, leaning her chin on one of her hands, elbows propped against the table. "My lady mother always said that the only sorry thing in life is how unhappy good people make themselves."

Is that really all it is? The royalty of Scotland are a happy family.

Are they only happy because they do not _choose_ to be unhappy? They do have much to be unhappy about — a father with a bastard son, a mother who chooses not to dance, too many sons and only one throne, an Englishman who took the only daughter…

Framing it that way makes happiness a choice.

_Do I choose to be happy? _

_Do I have that choice? _

"Really?" Izuna offers her the chess piece. "How would you solve this dilemma then?"

She takes the black knight, toying with the carved figurine, and surveys the board for a long moment. "I overturn the board." She tells Izuna, no trace of laughter or merriment in her face. "You can't make me choose a double bind, brother."

Izuna turns to face her fully. "But if you have to choose a sacrifice, which would it be?"

He has not turned to face anyone like so in a long time.

Ever since the accident, Izuna has known that he feels his innards knot up when seeing those wounds.

He'd seen those wounds before they were bandaged for the first time to try and prevent infection, had seen his brother's melted flesh, had seen—

"I will not sacrifice one to save the rest." She _burns_ with the conviction of it. "If this board is dear to me, I will not sacrifice a knight or bishop to save a king."

"So you'll choose the option where more people might die?" Izuna asks her, voice soft like a river undercurrent.

Madara knows why Izuna is doing this. It's for him. _Do not ask her to choose between me and her family in Scotland, little brother. That is a grave wrong you should not commit._

How could he ask her to choose? He met her less than a month ago. She loves her family, loves her lord father, her lady mother, her brothers. How could she choose him over them?

He cannot choose her over Izuna either. _Izuna, what are you doing, setting such an impossible goal? Not everyone can value me the way you do. We are bound by blood you and I, bound by love and years together. I cannot ask others to match you in loyalty._

"I choose the option where I force everyone to live." She sets the knight on the side of the board. "You can move mountains if you have the will."

"And who told you this?" Izuna asks her, his voice still so very very soft. He has not accepted her yet then, not completely. "Your lord father?"

Kanae smiles, sharp and bright. "No not at all. My bastard elder brother who is Heir to Scotland's Crown taught me that."

So Kyoya Anaharaya is a king's heir. A bastard with legitimate brothers is a king's heir. He wonders how Queen Naokano has stood it, how five brothers can live peaceably under one roof when the bastard, who is the king's eldest son, will also hold the crown before any of his legitimate siblings are able to touch it.

The amount of love that would cause such a thing to come to pass astounds him. _King Ashina sent his crown prince to greet me. A son who does not share his name or much at all of his face will inherit his crown._

Izuna sucks in a sharp breath. "I see." He doesn't press further.

Kanae's smile is beaming, bright and happy like the sun. "I'm glad you understand."

Madara feels himself relax. There will be peace between the two of them at least. Two members of his family are going to be happy together, or at least spend their days peaceably with each other out of love for him.

Izuna tilts his head to the side. "What have I understood?"

Madara nearly opens his mouth to put a stop to it. His little brother knows exactly what is going on. _She means your baiting of her to pick and choose people to love. She means how unreasonable you were being just a moment ago before she put a stop to your tongue, little brother._

He nearly opens his mouth to stop it, but she beats him to it.

"You're a smart man, brother." She sets a hand over his. "You understand what I mean, so don't sell yourself as a halfwit. You know that neither of us will believe it."

"Sister mine," Izuna sighs. "Will you tell me what you look like?" It's the first sign of weakness Izuna's shown. He'd been dressed well by an attendant. He had his hair brushed and pulled back neatly.

He'd greeted them from by the window as though he could see outside with a chessboard and an impossible question, and he'd done his best to appear invulnerable even with the black band over his eyes and the scars twisting his face.

But this is how Madara knows that his brother approves of his choice. He wouldn't draw attention to his blindness otherwise.

"Mmm." Kanae taps her fingers against her chin, thinking. "I have red hair and green eyes. My face is rather pale. I have a pointed chin, an upturned nose. I have a scar on the inside of my forearm from a tilting accident. I'm wearing a green dress." She frowns, creases appearing between her eyes. "I am no particularly great beauty, so don't think of me that way."

Izuna laughs. "No particular beauty?" His smile turns devious. "My elder brother has never cared for any woman that has ever crossed his path before, no matter how beautiful. Yet less than two weeks time in Scotland, and you came home with him. How can you say you're not a great beauty? They'll be composing songs to your flaming hair soon enough."

Ah, so now that Izuna is a happy man with his new sister-in-law he is in business to sell all of his older brother's secrets. "You are a horrible little brother." He mutters under his breath.

Izuna merely grings wider at that.

Kanae worries a strand of hair between her fingers. "But I really am not a beauty. I have never had anyone compose a song for me."

"Don't worry." Izuna smiles. "History and gossips will remember you as one. You're to be the Duchess of Warwick. Wife of my brother who doesn't love anyone. How can you not be a beauty the bards will sing about for centuries?"

Madara sputters. "Izuna, stop it." He has kept the paths of his past lovers from ever crossing his brother's. For one, he is certain Izuna has never set foot in a brothel in his life. For another, he is certain that Izuna suspects nothing of his relations with Hashirama and he would like to keep it that way.

Izuna thinks the world of him.

To know that his elder brother is a man of so much sin that his soul is dyed black from the horror of it is to know that his own adoration is of a false hero.

He would never ask that of Izuna.

Perhaps all he does is hide from the judgement of those he loves.

"My lord won me in a jousting match." Kanae says, finally tossing the distracting strand of hair away from her face. "And my married elder sister was Scotland's Pearl, the second gem of my father's crown besides my mother. I'm his wild war child, a little storm. I don't want to be a beauty." So she has a sister too then.

He has a sister-in-law that he has not met.

Izuna turns to him. "Brother, you won your wife in a joust." He sounds, not impressed that is true, but also less upset than Her Grace might have been.

"I did in fact." There's no use in denying what is true and natural. He won Sir Kanae in a joust, though it was more than that.

"Brother." Izuna sighs. "Did no one ever tell you that such a thing is not the successful analogue of courtship?"

He frowns. "I do believe you have mentioned it now, yes."

Izuna sighs once more. "My apologies, dearest sister." He pats Kanae's hand soothingly. "You'll have to confide all your troubles with my elder brother to me, so that we may commiserate in our ills." Izuna's grin is unholy.

His little brother has never had a partner to make fun of him with before, and it seems as though the introduction of one has simply made him more of a trickster.

Those who would call Izuna weak because he's been crippled don't see the truth of him and likely never have.

"I am uncertain that I need to commiserate about much." Kanae shrugs, her smile smaller, softer, fonder. "My Lord has been nothing but courteous."

"Really?" Is that...a _pout?_

"Yes, really." Madara cuts in. "I'm glad you two get along so well." He offers Kanae his arm. "But really, there are many preparations to be made if I am to marry soon, and I'm sure my lady needs to provide her input." He pats Izuna on the shoulder once, for the first time in two years, looks directly at his brother's face. "I shall have to beg your leave before you ruin me forever, little brother."

Izuna freezes for a long moment, his shoulders tense, hands limply in his lap. When he next speaks, his voice is hoarse with some emotion that Madara cannot name. "Ah, but big brother there are so many stories of you that I must tell my dearest sister." He smiles, but there is also grief behind it, a raw and breaking sadness. "I'm sure she wants to hear about you and horse manure, or the incident with the blueberry pie."

"I would love to know." Kanae looks about his rooms once. "Aruta tells me you studied the stars. He said he would write to you if you want to dictate your letters."

"Aruta?" Izuna asks, sadness momentarily forgotten.

"My fourth brother." Kanae laughs. "Though both he and Ashiro like to claim that they are my fourth brother so only our lady mother really knows which is which. One of them has to be the fifth. He studies astronomy at St. Giles in Edinburgh."

"He does?" There's a light to Izuna's face Madara has not seen in many years. "Do the monks in Scotland know anything more than what we have been able to find out here?" He stumbles to his feet hastily. "Where are my notes? It has been so long since I last touched anything. I must be so far behind." He sighs suddenly and shakes his head. "I cannot read them even if I found them this instant." It's as if a blind falls across his brother's heart, because Madara sees his shoulders sink and his breath rush from him. "My thanks to your brother. If I may, I'll write to him after I find a reader for my notes."

"That's all he asks." Kanae takes both of his hands in her own. "My brother loves to make friends. Do not be so hard on yourself. He was just as ecstatic to learn of an Englishman studying astronomy as well that he left three half eaten apples in various locations on his desk and did not recognize a single one when he came out of his immense excitement."

She knows exactly what to say, for it eases the resignation from Izuna's shoulders.

He who has never known what to say, in either comfort or in jest can only watch in awe.

When they take their leave half an hour later, Kanae knows almost everything there is to know about manure, cats, and the state of blueberry pie in his childhood. At least Izuna didn't tell him about the Kitchen Incident.

He is resigned to her giggling from here to eternity.

"I didn't know you were such a mischievous child." She says as they walk.

"Izuna speaks of the worst of me." He maintains a straight face. "I certainly was not—" He means to say that he certainly was not as much a devil child as Izuna would like to remember him as, but he spots the black and white of the fortune teller's motley and the words die on his lips.

At the other end of the hall they are passing through is Zetsu the commoner with his cards and horridly slimy black gaze.

Back when he was last in Warwick, he'd warned the commoner away from him and Izuna. He's unwilling to listen to the fortune teller's words of a great destiny, a storm and whatever other crackpot nonsense will spring from the man's tongue.

It has bewitched his father, but it will not bewitch him.

"My lord?" She's noticed his distraction.

He centers himself, breathes out. "It is nothing, just another denizen of this castle you've yet to meet." A corner of his mouth turns down. "One I do not much care for, and I assume you'd want nothing to do with either."

"I see."

The two of them continue on.

The fortune teller drops his cards when they pass. "No, no, it cannot be. It _cannot._"

Madara isn't interested in learning what 'cannot' be, so they do not stay to find out.

In time, this peculiar situation fades from his mind entirely.

* * *

**A.N. **And so the fanfic update schedule goes on. Very Long Update this time.

Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed, favorited and followed! And especially to Blue, for her boundless enthusiasm about this story, which has prevented it from being lost under more popular works in my google drive.

~Tavina


	6. To Wear His Heart on His Sleeve

**Disclaimer: I do not own Naruto. Beta'd by Fishebake.**

* * *

"With a heart like that, you deserve the world."

— r. m. drake

* * *

It takes a month to arrange the wedding, a month to nail the notice to the door of the church, a month to send all the invitations, a month to arrange the feasting, a month because his lady mother worked far more quickly now that there was a bride in mind.

Warwick's extensive resources are brought to bear, a priest is called, rings are forged by a goldsmith and sent up to the castle, all with the speed enough that it would make his head spin. Still, he has ignored it for the most part.

Certainly, Her Grace doesn't want this chance to slip through her fingers. More time to think must have made her realize that he will do no better than a princess, no matter how much she doesn't approve of the princess's habits.

He's glad, at least, that there were no further protests. They were beginning to wear thin his patience. And when his patience burns away, there is very little to contain his rage.

There is, after all, only so many times he can covertly threaten to shave his head and become a monk without it feeling like a death sentence even for _him. _

The irony of him becoming a man of god would be humorous if it wasn't also...disquieting and sad.

In most respects, he belongs to the faith and the ideals of the church. In most respects, until it comes to love.

For then at least, half his love is sin. His most recent love affair would see devout members of the Church attempt to try and hang him, if not burn him at the stake. Sodomy is an awful word, and it brings with it great punishment.

So when he dresses that morning before the ceremony and prepares to step foot in the great Cathedral, his mind is strangely calm.

Like a soft tide rushing out to sea, he clasps the last of the fasteners of his black cloak about his neck, pauses for a moment while turning an idea over in his mind, before sweeping out of the room.

His cane stays where he'd left it the night before, leaning against the rack where he also kept his rapier, shield and suit of arms.

Here in Warwick, on his wedding day, there will be no need for blades.

The service is a long one, though his mind does not wander as he listens to the priest's low baritone echo from the walls, through the atrium and up high into the rafters above.

The priest speaks of the sacred nature of the marital union, of the ties that bind, of what is to come and what has been.

For all intents and purposes, this was and has always been his fate.

He wisely refrains from any change in expression during the discussion of fated, predestined union written down long before he was born.

_If I did not choose to go to Islay, if I did not choose to joust, if she did not choose to falter, my predestined fate would be married to another woman. It's our choices that make us who we are. _

What a lovely thing it is when it ends.

Only when they are at the altar, does he finally see her. Her hair has been twisted into a crown of braids, thick and heavy, pinned tightly with not a strand out of place.

Sir Kanae does not look like herself in this blue dress beaded with black pearls, sheer lace gloves up to her elbows, her hair tamed and her posture demure.

She acts well, so she does, Kanae Uzumaki, Princess of Scots, but when she turns her eyes up to meet his own before the vows, he knows very well that it is only an act.

No, she may wear the trappings of propriety well, but they will never be her nature.

He is glad, in a way, that King Ashina had allowed her the choice of a lord with a trial by combat.

If her life had been signed to a man with no care for a woman who deviated from the bounds of what was _proper _besides how he could trample it under his foot, Madara is sure she would survive.

But that would not have made her happy.

He is uncertain that he will make her happy in the end, but at the very least, he is not blind to who she is, of the storm behind the veneer of grace and a demuring nature. At the very least, he has already promised to try.

He takes her hand, and turns to face the altar.

"I do." From this day to his last day, to have and to hold, to cherish and to honor.

"I do." From this day to her last day, for better or for worse, in sickness and in health.

Turning away, there is Taiko, the messenger boy holding the tray with the two plain gold bands.

He selects the slighter of the two and slides onto her finger, the band cold to the touch despite the balmy summer air.

She smiles, small and quick, amusement dusting her features for the briefest span of moments before with great deliberation she picks up the other ring.

The rings themselves were made by a great jeweler, spun air-light and delicate, far beyond the usual craftsmanship for such affairs.

Warwick deserves nothing less.

It is not heavy on his hand when they turn to walk down the aisle, amidst the cheering of the gathered crowd, but still the cool feel of gold unwarmed by the touch of a human hand clasps him by his hand.

By the end of the day, even that is forgotten.

* * *

"Perhaps we should retire." He offers the woman beside him his arm. "It is late enough."

The jostling and noise of the guests rattles in his ears and he dislikes the boisterous mood. Yes, it is a wedding party. Yes, it is his wedding party.

That doesn't mean necessarily that he's happy. There have been few parties in his life where he's been truly happy.

There's too much of this that he dreads, but nothing has been solved by running away from it.

There's a gold band on his finger.

There are guests here celebrating his marriage.

Her Grace looks well pleased by the boisterous atmosphere. Warwick has not seen a celebration in years.

His Grace has deigned to sit at the head of the table tonight, propped up on pillows and periodically snapping at the cupbearer who tops his glass.

Izuna is here too, a small smile on his face, far happier than he's been since Madara's return.

He glances at his younger brother's face and almost flinches. The pang of guilt is still too much, too sharp, too difficult. He cannot think of this now.

Only one thing remains, only one thing remains, and he hardly wants to think of this exactly.

Despite what other people have always whispered, especially in Court, he is made of fire, not ice. He is a man made of fire, and this night has an inevitable conclusion.

"But the guests aren't done celebrating yet."

_She's thinking of— _His mind cuts off the thought. "That's a disgusting ritual. No one is chasing you tonight." He'd personally told his men he would not tolerate such a thing. The tradition of tearing the bride's dress off of her on the way to the wedding bed will find nothing but a swift death here.

How lovely it is that his lord father has other ideas after seeing him rise. "Perhaps we should celebrate the happy couple a little more tonight. After all, there is only ever one wedding night."

The commoner fortune teller is at his father's elbow, dressed in motley like some sort of fool.

Just the sight of that disgusts him more. "I doubt my lady and I need to be celebrated any more tonight, Your Grace. We've been celebrating since dawn, give everyone a little rest."

Who will these now awkwardly silent guests listen to: the man on his deathbed, or their future lord?

It's not a hard choice. He'd grown up among these people, and despite not being home in seven years, he is still their future duke.

No one follows them out.

* * *

The walk down the hall with her hand on his arm sets him ill at least, tension in his shoulders, his neck, fraying at his fingertips.

It does not help that their walk is silent. For the first time, it doesn't seem like she's particularly inclined to break the quiet that has settled all about them. She is content in the wordless press of nothing then.

He cannot help but find that possibly even worse than her constant chattering.

They enter his suite of rooms first. The candles are lit.

Her hand slips from his arm.

"Chihaya is waiting for me to let down my hair." It might be a stalling tactic, but he too wishes to stall the inevitable.

"As is only reasonable." He says, so softly it might as well be a whisper. "You shouldn't keep her waiting."

He takes a seat, his back to the door of her rooms.

She will return, or she will not.

And if she does not...if she does not…

He never finishes that line of thought because she returns, the soft scrape of the heavy door against the stonework of the floor loud in the quiet. "My Lord?"

She sounds nervous, still the sound of her bare feet across the floor tells him that she is moving toward him.

"My Lady." So it is to be titles between them. Perhaps years from now, there will be no one to call him Madara.

Still, there is something intimate about the way 'my lord' falls from her lips. Why does it make his skin shudder when he hears it so frequently from almost every mouth? She should be no different, but the words raise gooseflesh on his skin.

She is just behind him, now beside him, then before him. "There is something expected about this night."

"There is," he agrees, quite uselessly. He ought to raise his eyes, but that would be confirming a truth, and he doesn't know what sort of emotion she'd read from his eyes.

No, he does not want to know.

"Well." It sounds like a question. _Shouldn't something happen then? _She has returned. He ought to do something.

Ought to, but his hands are heavy at his sides.

What has he become?

Heavens, it is not as if he is still some blushing boy who has never known the pleasure of flesh.

That would be himself perhaps some six or seven years ago.

He is not old to be married, but neither is he young.

"I am not immune to desire, my lady." His throat is parched, dry, and he wishes he didn't ignore the goblet of mead topped up to the brim by his elbow all night. She wears only a shift, her feet bare, her hair loose. It is the most unguarded he's seen her. "But I have also never bedded an unwilling soul." Something inside him twists.

Does he desire her?

Yes.

He does.

"I will not start tonight." He still has some dignity. Never before has he had an unwilling lover, and tonight is not the night he starts.

She takes a step closer. "No," she agrees. "You will not." A hand against his cheek, tilting his face up. He has to meet her eyes.

They are wide and clear, almost heartbreaking in how earnestly she looks at him. So few people bother to tell him the truth to his face.

He almost tells her that he understands that there is no need for anything to happen despite the rather obvious: a marriage is unlawful until consummated, but she continues. "I have never desired anyone before." No, likely she has not. She's young.

When he was seventeen, he'd thought Hashirama a friend. His dearest friend in an unfamiliar city, in the wide and wheeling court, but he had no thoughts towards sin either.

"But I doubt I'm immune either." The corners of her mouth tilt up in a genuine smile. "You _are _beautiful, my lord."

"Beautiful?" he asks. He already knew that he was striking, and that it gave him the ability to charm who he wanted to charm should he try it, but her words always bleed with a sort of raw honesty that makes him doubt himself. "Am I?"

"Of course you are." Her voice takes on a slightly amused tinge. "Surely, someone had to have told you?"

Plenty of people have told him. It is just— _You have never said that before. _"_You_ have not." Is what he settles for. There is an ache in his very soul that would take too many unfamiliar words to explain.

His lips and tongue can't form those words, not tonight, maybe never.

"Can you teach me?" She climbs onto his lap, straddling his hips, hands braced against his chest.

She does not know — she cannot know — how this affects him. Would she tease him so with the white column of her neck, her bare shoulders, the sharp line of her collarbone, if she knew how much he longed to plant kisses there until she understands?

"There is no need to teach desire, my lady." He cups the back of her neck, fingers tangled in her hair. "It lives on attraction and breathes in affection." Desire is a living, pulsing thing, a thing felt by instinct and hollow echoes.

They had kissed earlier, a chaste press of lips over the top of a tower of buns.

That is not the way he wants to kiss her now. "May I?" _May I kiss you, my lady? _

Her lips part slightly, painted red with rogue, a gentle distraction.

"Yes."

The press of her lips against his is soft at first, but grows more insistent, still gentle, not exactly passion, but on the way there. There are many ways to either fan this flame or squelch it.

He sighs into the kiss; her mouth is warm, and she tastes so sweet. There is something about the softness of this moment — not the desperate urge of need, but a soft current of want nonetheless.

Tonight, he chooses to fan the flame.

She shifts, her hands clenching tighter.

When they finally break apart, her face flushed, her hands fisted in his shirt, it feels like a simmering in his blood. It has been months since he felt this way. He has always been a man of earthly temptations, but something this intoxicating can only be rare and precious.

"May I?" There is something so lovely about this moment. He half wishes that he could keep it forever.

"Yes." She carefully lets go of his shirtfront, fingers attempting to smooth the wrinkled cloth.

He pulls her closer, lips ghosting over her pulse. She trembles, the sound that escapes her breathy and indistinct.

It was not a name, not a distinguishable word, not even loud, but it shudders through him all the same.

He tilts his head, teeth scraping the juncture between her neck and shoulder before he drags a hot line to hollow of her throat.

"Please," she whispers from somewhere above him. "Please."

She doesn't know what she's asking for. Perhaps someone had told her once what was to come on a wedding night, but she does not _know_, not truly.

That does not make the words she's using any less heady.

Passion is a fire. _And fanning the flame can lead to burns. _

Ah, but he was never good at protecting himself from that. He has always loved the flame.

Let him burn.

He pulls back, fingers lingering at the neckline of her shift. It wouldn't take much to get rid of it.

He asks with his eyes, not entirely sure of his ability to form a coherent sentence. The look of want — like storm clouds rolling on a desolate coast, like coming home from war, like affection that ruins the fury of grief, like — in her green eyes is enough to cut him apart.

She is no lover that he can love and leave.

And he has always been good at burning.

She takes the hand that rests on her shoulder and pulls the collar down, the linen pooling around her thighs. It will have to be removed later, but as it is, this is acceptable to him.

But having done this, her courage deserts her. She looks away from him, at some point on the floor, lips pulled into a rueful smile.

She is not without scars. A faint one carves a line over under one of her ribs, an accident in the tiltyard perhaps. There are others, but that is the largest, most noticeable of them.

He traces it gently to its end where her ribs join and fuse.

She is not without scars, but neither is he.

"This is nothing to be ashamed of." No one can grow good with a lance without taking some tumbles, without risking injury. No warrior is without scars, and he had admired her for her daring and courage before desiring her lips on his, her hands in his hair, her soul laid bare to him.

"I am not ashamed of it." Her head comes to a rest on his shoulder, her breath fanning out across his throat.

His mouth runs dry once more.

"But I am not very pretty." _Not very pretty with it._

"No," he agrees as he pulls her hand to his side. She'd drawn his blood there once. The scar on his left side is new and twisted, puckered pink skin far less pleasing to the eye than the rest of him. "And by that argument, I am not beautiful either." She opens her mouth, protest sparking in her eyes, but he continues anyway. "Do not delude yourself, my lady. You are exquisite."

The choked sob that rips its way out of her throat almost breaks the small part of him that still believes in goodness, in that kindness is to be had in this world, in that beauty can still be pure.

"Has no one told you this before?" _Has no one told you, or did you not believe them? _

She tilts her face up to his, green eyes brimming with unshed tears that would never fall if he has any say in the matter. "Thank you." Then her mouth is on his, insistent like an unfinished question, like a plea for grace.

He strokes the line of her spine, and almost unconsciously her hips roll forward.

His attempt to stifle his groan is a fruitless endeavor. He leans forward to whisper in her ear. "As much as I love this, my lady, at this rate you'll finish me before you want that to happen." It would be embarrassing, but not the worst thing he's done over the years.

"What?" She sounds so distracted, her hands wandering his front.

"Your lord husband is completely dressed, my lady." He huffs a laugh. "That might be a little unfair, yes?"

Her fingers fly to the top button of his shirt. She doesn't linger, frowning at the persistently small clasps as she attempts to pry them apart. "This wasn't hard before." She mutters, half to herself and half to him.

He laughs, the chuckle warmer than perhaps it has been in a long time. "I don't think you were quite so eager to remove it last time." That's the thing about clothing, it resents you when you try to make it go away. When you desperately want it gone, it stays.

Her shift has to go too. He'd been content to leave it where it had slid down to pool over her thighs like the skirt of a rumpled dress, but now he finds it inhibiting. He tugs at it more persistently.

Linen does not rip like cotton would. The effort to just destroy the garment would cost more than removing it in a more civilized fashion. "Arms up." He asks her.

She makes a noise of frustration. "I'm not _done._" She has unbuttoned perhaps half of his shirt. She could just pull it off his shoulders now, force buttons to cascade to the floor like so many pebbles bouncing on the stonework, but he doubts she has thought of that particular method. She's too new to this, unpracticed and a little shy.

Some other time, she will rip his shirt off of him, and that deep well inside him will shudder with happy appreciation. For now…

"The buttons won't go anywhere."

Begrudgingly, she lets him pull the offending garment off of her. It falls to the floor, completely forgotten in the span of seconds.

They pause like that for a moment, another moment he wishes to keep, before she launches her attack on his shirt once more.

Somehow, this time, it goes more successfully this time. She peels the shirt off of him with a triumphant cry and lets it drop to the floor, as forgotten as her shift.

Only then does she remember that he still has _other_ articles of clothing.

The truly frustrated cry she allows to slip out of her throat when confronted by his belt sends him into a fit of helpless laughter.

She casts him a disapproving look.

"I'll help." He leans in for another kiss, nibbling lightly at her bottom lip. "If you can bear to be parted from me that is. This will take considerably longer with you in my lap." It is not _impossible, _merely very inconvenient.

She's upset about this too, but they are not at the point where all logic has fled. She allows him the minute he needs to finally shed all the offending garments that had separated them before she's in his lap once more, hands in his hair, lips on his once more, hot and insistent, all forms of softness and chasity gone.

It's the sight her with her head thrown back, her hair spilling all about her shoulders, red red red, the heat of this, the sounds she's making almost obscene, sobbing, her hands clutching helplessly at his shoulders that undoes him in the end.

For a long time after, neither of them moves. He's content to stay here as the high ebbs from him. She's still in his arms, their hair mingling together, heartbeats out of sync, but still a rhythm that's natural enough.

"Should I ask them to draw a bath?"

"Mmm." She agrees, wordless, drowsy, and most importantly content.

And that is more than enough.

* * *

He wakes to the morning sun, golden across the tapestries, and a wild tangle of red hair in his face. They'd left the canopy open last night, and thus the sun was allowed to intrude. He makes a mental note to not let that happen again. Again, as though he governed fate enough that they would do this if not often, then more than once.

He moves the hair, sliding it back over her shoulder, but otherwise does nothing, merely stares up at the ceiling.

It's morning, and he's still here.

That's never happened before.

He woke up in his own bed, alone, more often than he can count all these years.

But this, this is gold in so many ways.

There is still time, still time to get up and go, but he does not and misses the moment to.

She sleeps with one hand half clenched before her, the other arm thrown loosely over the pillows.

He did not lie last night when he said that Sir Kanae is beautiful.

He allows the moment to linger, until it is no longer a moment, but a decision, a choice.

He stays when he has never stayed before.

"You're still here." She blinks at him, sleepy green eyes half open, an arm casually thrown over his chest. She sounds surprised.

Something tightens in his throat. "Would you like me to go?" Perhaps she doesn't want his company any longer? He knows that he is not—

She yawns. "You're tense." Her hand comes to rest on his shoulder, placed lightly. She won't keep him if he chooses to get up and go. "Did you want to go?"

Does he want to— "No."

"Then I would like if you stayed."

And something settles between them. Something stays.

_No lover I can love and leave. _

And yet he is alright with that.

She hums happily to herself. "I suppose that's the answer then."

"What's the question?" He'd answered her questions.

"Mmm." Her fingertips trace his collarbone, the gesture tender in ways that he didn't expect. "It's not much, just a question my lady mother asked me before I left."

"Ah," he half suspects he knows the question then. _How can you be sure that he will treat you well? _

Well, now she knows exactly what sort of man he is. "I am not a cold man by nature." Tired perhaps. Hardly in charge of his own destiny here at Warwick. _Reserved _before a crowd, but hardly cold. "And I am glad I do not have to play a cold part."

He feels her smile against his shoulder more than he sees it. "I'm glad too."

* * *

**A.N. **So uh, apparently I had this written for months and then never uploaded it because ? I'm honestly not too sure why unless I meant to finish writing chapter seven, before I uploaded this, except my brain got eaten by other works in progress in the same time period, so chapter 7 has been gathering dust for about a good five or six months. Anyway, a wedding, a discussion, and thoughts of a future to come.

Thank you to everyone for your support, it's always so lovely to hear from all of you! Stay safe, stay well!

~Tavina


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